


Not Half Bad

by Astrogeekery



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 3rd person omniscient AND 3rd person limited, Action, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Background RoChu - Freeform, Egregious destruction of farmers market booths, FACE Family, Family Drama, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Matthew works at target, Narration-ish bits, Superheroes, Superpowers, Supervillains, Villain/Hero, Villain/Villain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 51,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23806810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrogeekery/pseuds/Astrogeekery
Summary: The city was crawling with many, many supervillains whose reprehensible behavior was quite admirable. Supervillains practically gushing out of the gutters to wreak havoc on a city that had never known peace in the first place. Supervillains who were powerful, loathsome, infamous figures. Supervillains who struck fear into the hearts of those that would dare oppose them. Supervillains for whom mayhem was a mother tongue and for whom mischief unfolded like a red carpet at their feet. Supervillains who were models for how a true supervillain should be.Gilbert Beilschmidt and Matthew Williams, on the other hand… made wonderful anti-examples.
Relationships: America/Japan (Hetalia), Canada/Prussia (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 112





	1. Not-So-Super Villains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In a city rife with crime at the hands of the most powerful villains the world has ever seen,_
> 
> _Only a just and true hero can save the day._
> 
> _Good thing most of these villains are really bad at their jobs ___

“—AND _THIS_ IS WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO YOUR PRECIOUS ‘SUPERHEROES!’” The Silver Panic brandished the ray gun high over his head, pointing it directly at the enormous statue. What a message it would send, to burn it to the ground. To burn it all to the ground. 

A shocked gasp rippled through the crowd of cowering onlookers. 

The Panic smashed the trigger with a finger, a triumphant sneer taking over his features. 

There was a click, a shy _poof_ , and a tiny wisp of smoke that curled out from the end of the ray. There was nothing at all like the grand _roar_ of the incineration ray he’d spent so long perfecting. The Panic held very, very still—much like the statue which stood behind him, not incinerated. The audience looked around at each other. Maybe his ray gun wasn’t warmed up yet…? The Panic laughed nervously. He kept pushing the trigger. Nothing continued to happen. 

He smacked it.

_FWOOSH._

Something, in fact, happened. 

The Silver Panic cursed and dropped the weapon, shaking his gloved hand in pain. The ray gun was no more, its remains shriveled and blackened on the concrete at his feet. The Panic continued to spit curses, though it wasn’t quite clear specifically at what since at that moment he had many things worth cursing. Luckily, none of the children in the audience spoke German. The statue of the superhero remained perfectly intact, smiling confidently down at the scene. In fact, now that the audience thought about it, had that hero’s jaw structure always been so… defined? And attractive? 

Some of the audience members shrugged at each other and walked off, talking of grabbing lattes later or perhaps a Sunday brunch with the family. Somebody commented about how, wow, they weren’t rooting for the villains or anything, but that display was really _sad_. 

The Silver Panic reached down to salvage the remains of the ray gun and was helpfully informed with another burnt finger that it was still _incredibly_ hot. The Panic glanced around himself, coughed into his elbow. He shook his hand around some more. He then decided it was probably time to go. He hopped down from the statue’s base, heavy boots uncomfortably loud on the pavement as he trotted away doing a poor job of pretending his dignity had managed to get away unscathed. 

Gilbert Beilschmidt made it a block down the street before a dark, grumbling shadow boiled into existence above him. He didn’t even look up at it; he was well-acquainted with the Council for Reprimands’ summonses. The now very literal thundercloud over his head rumbled some more, a couple warning drops splashing onto the top of his head, and abruptly began to downpour. The passersby on the street gave him a wide berth. Gilbert Beilschmidt, the Silver Panic, sighed. And he hadn’t even brought his umbrella either... 

Gilbert, for one, was getting real tired of being wet. He gave the snake statues guarding the skyscraper's main double doors a two-fingered salute and they curled aside to let him in. The thunderhead dispersed as he stepped over the threshold, drenched and dripping onto the dark stone floor. Like, seriously, they couldn’t find _any_ other way to summon them? What was so wrong with sending an email? A strongly-worded letter? His boots squelched as he trudged over to hit the elevator button. 

‘THE HIGH COUNCIL OF SUPERVILLAINY,’ read the shining plate beside the top-most button. 

Gilbert smacked one well below it. ‘Reprimands,’ it read. ‘You know what you did,’ its unimpressed font implied. The civilian janitor they paid to mop up after the villains gave him a friendly nod. 

The elevator ascended and the doors slid open with an airy voice announcing his floor and wishing him an unpleasant day. Gilbert felt like a spitball someone had let loose stepping out into the long, echo-y corridor lined with benches. He slogged and squeaked his way to the front and took a number from the dispenser beside the large bin of courtesy rice before slumping down to leave a new puddle on the nearest bench, shoving his dark goggles to the top of his head and trying to unstick the leather pants that had suctioned themselves in very inconvenient places. 

He let out a deep breath, letting his head fall back against the wall behind him. 

It was then that Gilbert noticed the waiting area was _not_ as empty as he’d thought. 

Right across from him, an equally-drenched villain slouched with his chin in his hand—looking like he’d been summoned right from the grocery store in his red hoodie and jeans. Also, important little detail here, he was semi-transparent. Gilbert could see the bench through him. 

“You too, huh?” Gilbert sighed, choosing to ignore that this stranger probably just watched him pick his pants out of his ass. The other guy nodded, politely solidifying now that Gilbert was looking at him. Gilbert plucked at his melt-y glove. “What are you in for?” 

The guy shifted like he was considering going transparent again. He gave a sheepish smile down at twiddling thumbs, “I, uh, made the newspaper,” he answered quietly. 

Gilbert coughed. “Right. You know, _I_ made the newspaper too—”

“—It was because I accidentally did something good.” 

That stopped him. “ _Oh_.” 

“Yeah…” the stranger slumped further down on the bench, now mirroring Gil, “Third page headlines.” 

Gilbert shook his head, snorting, “What did you _do_?” 

He rubbed at his neck. “I let all the dogs out of a local pound.” 

“What? That’s at _least_ a Class A nuisance!” 

“Yeah, but… Turns out it actually brought attention to a lot of poor conditions? ‘Animal Rights Activist Exposes Unsafe Environment by Releasing the Hounds,’” he shrugged a shoulder, “I guess there’s worse good I could do?” The stranger gave him a curious once over. “So… What about you...?” 

Gilbert waved that noise out of the air with a glove that smelled only vaguely of barbecue, “Me? Oh, they must be calling me in to talk about a funding matter. I made this totally awesome incineration ray. They probably want to talk to me about making it even _bigger_ , since it was such a great idea.” 

The stranger had a certain gleam in his eyes, like he _would_ give him a pity-smile for the bullshit but would rather not piss off a strange villain with it. “I’m Matthew, by the way,” he offered instead, a different sort of olive branch between them in the shining, beautiful solidarity of fucking up.

Gilbert raised a hand back at him to complete their roll call, “Gilbert.”

It was almost like they were having a little moment. It would have been a better moment if they were less—you know—wet. But it was a moment nonetheless. 

Just then, though, the imposing double doors opened on their own to reveal the long table of supervillains in business formal waiting for the both of them. “Menace, Canadian,” they called, “Get in here,” they didn’t ask. 

Matthew stood, slipping his hands into his hoodie pocket. He looked back over his shoulder at Gilbert and—in memoriam to their little moment, Gilbert guessed—Matthew said: “Hey, my phone’s over in the rice bin. Could you let me know if someone steals it again?” 

Gil sent him on his way with a thumbs-up, having learned the lesson of engineering his own waterproof and miniature-lightning-proof phone case many, many summonses ago. 

The doors closed behind Matthew with a resounding thud, followed by a short wake of silence, followed by muffled not-silence. Gilbert compared his thumbs while the members of Reprimands shouted behind closed doors. The waiting hall was long and empty. And Gilbert was cold and waterlogged.

His phone case really _was_ a remarkable piece of work.

Reprimands, apparently in a shout-y mood, were still shouting. 

More villains should have phone cases like his, Gilbert thought. He could probably make some extra cash selling them to people. He could always use the extra cash. 

Gilbert glanced up at all the uncomfortable, vacant benches. Or maybe that wasn’t quite the case. Maybe—just maybe, he told himself—not every villain out there was in dire need of such a specific design.

Of course not every villain in the city had a need for equipment capable of withstanding multiple summonses to Reprimands. Truth be told, the city was crawling with many, many supervillains whose reprehensible behavior was quite admirable. Supervillains practically gushing out of the gutters to wreak havoc on a city that had never known peace in the first place. Supervillains who were powerful, loathsome, infamous figures. Supervillains who struck fear into the hearts of those that would dare oppose them. Supervillains for whom _mayhem_ was a mother tongue and for whom _mischief_ unfolded like a red carpet at their feet. Supervillains who were models for how a true supervillain should be. 

Gilbert Beilschmidt and Matthew Williams, on the other hand… made wonderful antiexamples. 

In fact, while the city had many villains who had never seen a summons to Reprimands, Mr. Beilschmidt and Mr. Willians found themselves again in the waiting area the following week, after the Silver Panic fell back on an old electro-ray for which he had never gotten the wiring _quite_ right, and the Canadian Menace orchestrated a power outage to spoil one of the Great Commission of Heroes’ banquets, resulting only in a feel-good news segment about community togetherness and the rescuing of a local candle shop from the brink of bankruptcy.

The caliber of the villains’ shared inadequacy would also explain why the week after that—while awaiting further reprimand for further lackluster grasps at villainy—they were beginning to feel rather well-acquainted with the other’s miserable, dripping presence. This time, they offered nods of greeting as Matthew buried his phone in the rice bin and made the decision to sit beside his partner-in-failure as they waited in silence. 

By the third week, as Matthew Williams dragged his squeaking sneakers on the black marble floors up to the front of the corridor in feeble hopes to revive his phone once more, Gilbert Beilschmidt unstuck himself from the bench to meet him. 

“Do you think we should swap schedules or something?” Gilbert asked, “Y’know, so we can see each other after work again next week,” Gilbert grinned like his hair wasn’t plastered to his forehead. 

Matthew glowered at the rice. 

“Not that we’ll be back next week,” he said, then snorted, because that was as much a joke as anything.

It tugged a laugh out of Matthew too, sour face and all. Matthew turned to look at him, rubbing at an arm with the teensiest of smiles. “We won’t be back next week,” Matthew said. “We’re… We’re both going to do something… right. Something so wrong it’s right.”

He sounded so sure about it too. Gilbert slugged him on the arm, feeling downright _chummy_ with this guy! “Hey, I like how you think!”

The double doors slammed open. 

“SILVER, YOU’RE IN FOR IT THIS TIME.” 

Gilbert threw up some finger guns at Matthew, already walking backward. “And if I do see you next week, maybe I can see about getting you a new phone case! One that you don’t have to dunk in rice every time I see you! It’s a pathetic sight, really.” 

Matthew gazed sadly down at his rice-y phone. “I won’t stop you on that.” 

And as Gilbert spun on a heel, he could have sworn he heard Matthew murmur a quiet _Good luck_.

Gilbert waltzed into the room of people who knew he was in deep shit without missing a beat. “HI AGAIN, EVERYBODY! I’M SURE YOU WERE LONELY WITHOUT ME!” 

The doors swung closed behind him. Reprimands watched him strut to the usual spot, front and center between their horseshoe-shaped table where everybody could see his only literally dampened magnificence. He didn’t even get a scoff out of them, though! Gil spread his arms wide. “WHERE’S THE ENERGY, PEOPLE? NOT EVEN A HELLO? DON’T YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT I’VE BEEN UP TO?” 

“‘Silver Panic,’ is it?” 

Gilbert looked up, only then noticing the man in a dark suit standing with his back to them all, gazing through the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the skyline. The man turned to face him, and ice shot through his veins. Oh, so he was in _real_ deep shit. 

The Executive wanted a reaction at his presence, but Gilbert wasn’t paid to kowtow to the boss. They were all supervillains here. So what if this guy happened to be the head honcho on the High Council of Supervillainy? Gilbert was the one with a lightning-proof phone case. 

Gilbert leaned against the podium they had for presentations and spread his hands. “I see you’ve finally come around to seeing my genius, Mr. Executive. It’s okay that it took you so long. And don’t worry, we can skip the formalities; I accept my position on the High Council.” 

Everyone in Reprimands was deathly silent. Gilbert would stand by it, though. It was a good joke. 

The Executive stepped forward, his outfit silky black on satiny black on even more rich-asshole black. “They told me you have a mouth,” he sighed. The Executive took his time picking through a manila folder in his hands. Gilbert guessed it contained everything he’d ever done wrong in his life. “Do you know what I do, Silver?” 

“I think I would prefer ‘His Awesomeness, Sir Panic’—THESE BOOTS ARE _RUBBER-SOLED_ , ZAPPY!”

The shithead storm elemental responsible for the summonses lowered his hand, fingers still crackling with a few thousand volts of ‘shut up.’ 

Gilbert, for one, was rather glad the bluff worked. His phone was lightning-proof. His fleshy bits were less so. 

The Executive waved his subordinate away and walked up into Gilbert’s space like he owned it. He kinda did, in that ‘this man can remove me from my job and also the planet if he wanted’ sort of way. But that was beside the point.

“I,” the Executive articulated slowly for him, “am in charge here. You would do well to remember that. You would also do well to remember I am the _conduit_ of all villainy in this city. Every vast and complicated web has a spider sitting at its heart and you are looking at it. _We_ are an expansive network, providing every manner of support to some of the greatest supervillains this world has ever seen.” He stepped even closer. “We have a reputation to uphold, Silver.” 

“Look, this last time wasn’t even my fault! I was thwarted! Thwarted! By a hero! Not chased off the scene by some civilian cops! That means the heroes know I’m a threat—”

“—Do you know how many _heroes_ I’ve put out of commission, Silver?” Another step into Gilbert’s space, putting them nearly chest to chest. “For that matter, do you know how many villains?” 

Gilbert tried not to, but he snorted. Then, he broke out laughing. 

Then, he was doubled over clutching the podium for support. Nobody else was laughing with him. Gilbert waved the Executive away. Wow, he thought he was hot shit for _that_ one, didn’t he? “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You can take away people’s powers. It’s how you got Big Boss around here; you have a cool ability. Not that your work isn’t awesome or anything, but—what? Are you threatening to take away _my powers_?”

The Executive smirked. Actually smirked. Like a true supervillain. “I am fully aware you have none for me to take, Silver. You’re a—” he gestured vaguely— “What do you call it? A tinkerer?” 

“Supremely talented individual works fine for me.” 

“An inventor of inventions that have failed again. And again. And again.” 

Gilbert puffed up with pride. “That’s what _happens_ when a project is put under such a time crunch! Look—” 

“—We have no deadlines, Silver.” 

Gil ground his teeth, all his practiced lines about his past feats and accomplishments evaporating in a white hot flash of nerves.

“But,” The Executive amended, “bills do, don’t they? And it’s my understanding that much of your most recent allowance from us went—not toward the incredible incineration ray you promised us—but toward keeping the lights on.” 

Gilbert glared back. 

“It’s not about taking away _powers_ , Silver. Removing someone’s powers is one of the worst things you could do to a super, that’s true, but a super can heal. Now as for you …” The Executive clicked his tongue, “You have so much further to fall than that. Because without us? You’re nothing.” The Executive stepped away, twirling Gilbert’s file in a hand as he walked for his stupid private elevator on the other side of the room. “Our funding is to go toward anything you need it to, Silver,” he said, pressing the button for his floor, “But we _do_ expect some villainy— _true_ villainy—in return.” The Executive shrugged, flashing a winning smile back at him as the elevator slid open. “It’s what we do!” 

There was silence in The Executive’s wake. Gilbert slowly unclenched his fists at his side.

Meanwhile, his old friend Zappy meandered over to hold out a slip of paper between two fingers. “If this happens again? You’re cut off. He’s our final warning. Get out of here.” Gilbert took the piece of paper, jumping as the asshole’s fingers shocked him.

Reprimands watched him go, boots squashing with every step. He should probably look into waterproofing them too. He wiggled his fingers in a _toodle-oo_ to them all. None of them waved back. Buzzkills. 

Matthew straightened up and solidified from almost-invisible as Gilbert shoved the doors wide open. Right. He had a super’s cell phone to resuscitate. 

And some stunt that would bode well-enough for him not to get cut off from the High Council’s funds to pull off. With enough money leftover to make rent. Right. Easy peasy. He was awesome. He was bad. He could do this. 

_Damn it_! Supers made it look so easy! Over-powered douchebag man babies like the Executive or every stupid-famous superhero ever just had to lift a finger and the world was handed to them on a silver platter! And when Gilbert had more style than _any_ of them! 

“How’d it go?” Matthew asked, shaking him from his inner whinings. 

Gilbert stuffed the piece of paper deep in his pocket. “What can I say? They were so impressed with my drive they’re going to consider me for a position on the High Council.” 

Matthew, unlike Reprimands, had the decency to smile at his hilarity. Or…. indecency, maybe, since they were supervillains and all…

Anyway, what Gilbert was starting to realize was that he could tolerate Matthew even more each minute, superpowers and all. Besides, at least he was proof not everybody with powers had it easy, right? Villainy was way more than just cool powers! It took flair, presentation!

And Gilbert had all that! It was just that… he needed resources, when supers had all they needed to do wicked shit naturally—and with no chance in the world of being labelled some common civilian criminal to boot. Gilbert _wasn’t_ common. And he wasn’t a civilian either, so long as he had the Council’s resources. 

The paper in his pocket—his final warning—crinkled as he shifted on his feet. He had to do something right… His eyes drifted over to Matthew, who had found himself in the exact same sinking ship as Gilbert... Something so wrong it was right…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is a tad experimental for me, style-wise. You'll notice sections that are omniscient, functioning almost as an all-knowing narration; the alignment of these sections is justified. All other sections follow the limited POVs of certain characters; these are right-aligned. 
> 
> If you're into what I'm doing here, please let me know with comments, kudos, and bookmarks!


	2. New Lairs, Evil Plans, & Villainous Brainstorming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All it takes for evil to prevail in the world,_
> 
> _Is for a good man to do nothing_
> 
> _But, I dunno, maybe that’ll spice things up a bit around here ___

“This is me!” Gilbert gestured grandly as he opened the door to his basement apartment. “So is it an evil enough lair space for you?” 

Matthew, in all his flanneled glory, peered around Gilbert’s totally sweet bachelor pad through circular glasses. “Could use more cobwebs,” he noted with an airy sort of humor. 

Gilbert went directly to his fridge, holding up a beer in offering to the beginnings of whatever the fuck this was going to be—potentially a disaster. He’d never been one to pass up a good disaster, though. Matthew gave him a nod, only fumbling the can a bit when Gilbert tossed it to him. 

Gil flipped on the TV for background noise. The news was on some feel-good bit about puppies getting adopted from a shitty pound. Then, Gilbert wheeled on the villain in his living room. “Well! I have no superpowers,” he reiterated, in case Matthew had missed that little detail, “And what about you? What’s your deal?” Gilbert sized up the super before him. Matthew was a few inches taller than he was, slouched shoulders and all. “I’ve seen you get all… fade-y.” 

“Yeah! Yeah, I can… ‘fade’ all the way. It’s invisibility. Also, I fly.” 

Gilbert choked on his beer. “You’re shitting me.” 

“Uh,” said Matthew. He stepped up into the air as effortlessly as climbing a stair, “No, I definitely can.” 

“Oh HELL yeah!” Gilbert raised his can to that, “Matthew, you and I are going to have a _great_ time!”

Matthew stepped back down, “Do you think so?” There was the barest hint of apprehension in the question. 

_Do you really think this is a good idea?_ _Do you actually believe this can work out?_

Gilbert shrugged. “Sure, why not?” 

A smile broke across Matthew’s face, directed at the wall. Maybe it wasn’t quite the answer he’d been expecting, but he seemed happy with it. On the TV, the news anchors laughed at their own joke. 

“So I was thinking…” Gilbert went on, “My incineration ray is _so close_ to being REALLY ready this time—and that’s not just bullshit for the Council to give me more cash—” A raucous cheer erupted from the TV then, interrupting him. Gilbert glanced up to find that all the yelling was less for his greatness and more for the blond hair, blue eyes, and spandex strutting across the screen. “Oh FUCK this guy!” 

Matthew turned around and let out a long-suffering sigh. 

“‘Captain Jones,’” Gilbert scoffed, “What kind of alter-ego is that? That’s not an alter-ego! That’s just a title and last name!” Gil cooled down with another drink, watching a smile spread alongside a blush across Matthew’s face. “What? Has he thwarted you too?” 

Matthew puffed out his cheeks. “Many times, actually.” 

Gil raised his can. “Fuck him.” He shook his head at the screen, at the adoring crowd cheering for a guy who was flexing up on a stage. “I mean, look at this shit! They treat him like he’s a movie star!”

Matthew leaned against the counter, watching the superhero parade around waving and saluting people with stupid winks. “Tell me about it,” he grumbled, “Try having him for a brother.” 

Gilbert could actually hear his train of thought’s brakes shrieking as it was _instantly derailed_. Gilbert looked Matthew in the face. Really looked at him. And, shit, it didn’t seem like he was joking. “Would you,” Gilbert said, “Would you like me to retract my ‘fuck?’” 

Matthew blinked, surprised. 

And then he laughed. 

“No. No, you really don’t have to…” Matthew put his back to the TV once more, rubbing at his neck, “You don’t know how good it feels to hear someone think that my brother _isn’t_ all that sometimes, actually.” 

“Good,” Gilbert said, “Because I definitely wasn’t going to un-fuck your brother.” 

“ _Please_ don’t say it like that.” 

Gilbert grinned over the lip of his can, then slammed it down on the counter. “Alright, Flyboy. Let’s get some things clear. I am in deep shit! You’ve got sick powers and I have awesome style and also an incineration ray to burn things with. In both respects, anything I will be doing will be very hot. What we need is a genius plan, because the two of us are going to knock the High Council’s evil socks off with it. I ramp up your style and hot factor; you ramp up my super-manpower; it’ll be a match made in Hell.” 

Matthew set down his drink and watched the condensation collect on the side. “Well,” he began, thoughtful, “About the genius plan—what were you planning on doing with your ray before?”

“You know that hero statue on the corner of Fourth and Sunset?” 

“The one with the jawline?” 

“That’s the one.” 

“We could try that again? Show the Council that you can?” 

Gilbert made a face.

“Yeah, I guess that probably wouldn’t have the best memories attached to it... We could try another statue?” 

Gil shrugged. “Sure. Does your brother have any?” 

Matthew smiled brighter than Gil had seen him yet, but he shook his head. “Shockingly, he doesn’t yet.” Gilbert liked that look in his eye, though. They were onto something with that one. He stored it away for later. 

“ _Well_ , Matthew the Menace, if you would be so kind as to follow me to my evil laboratory, I’m sure we can figure something out.” 

* * *

_There we are_ , Arthur took a steadying breath as he scratched the last of the intricate symbols into the prison cell floor with the stone he’d gotten hold of. _This time,_ he assured himself, _This time, it’ll work_. 

_Escape attempt #23._

He rose to his feet, holding out the stone before him to channel the energy since they’d taken all his bloody rings. One more deep breath, and he began the incantation. 

The sharp _crack!_ echoed through the prison hallways. The burning-matches smell wafted along sluggishly after it. Some newer additions to the facility were rather startled by this occurrence. The others, however, were not. Two had bets going on whether this guy was ever actually going to make it out, except that both of their bets were placed against him and in the event that Arthur Kirkland _should_ escape, both had agreed to lose money on it. 

This particular afternoon, neither of them would be losing money. 

Arthur Kirkland remained in his cell, everything now significantly more singed than it had been seconds before. 

Ludwig Beilschmidt rounded the corner with the fire extinguisher. Arthur glowered at the guard, blackened arms crossed petulantly. Ludwig sprayed him down, snuffing out the smoking embers that had very recently been Arthur’s latest orange jumpsuit. “Please stop doing that,” Ludwig sighed, which may have come across with more force if he had any evidence at all that Arthur would learn from his mistakes. Nevertheless, Ludwig turned on his heel to get him a new set of clothes, leaving Arthur, nevertheless, pouting in his prison cell. 

* * *

Matthew watched as Gilbert stepped forward into his workspace, hands reaching for something only he could see as he gazed about the room to decide where to go first. It smelled like a mechanic shop—all grease and oil and reminders of burning—but it was also… nice. 

All the tools had their places, several unfinished projects were tucked away under sheets, on tables and workbenches. Blueprints and plans were in an orderly stack on a desk off to one side—pencils, rulers, compasses, and protractors pinning them in place. It was clean, for what Gilbert did. It was remarkably spacious, for someone on a Council-controlled budget. Matthew wasn’t sure why he would assume otherwise, but Gilbert definitely didn’t keep his space the same level of chaos he made it his job to create. 

“Wow, it’s… immaculate…”

“WHY DOES EVERYBODY ALWAYS SAY THAT? WHY DO PEOPLE ASSUME I’M A SLOB?” 

“It’s nothing personal,” Matthew excused. “You just read as a sort that maybe wouldn’t care much about that kinda stuff, you know?” 

“ _Mein Gott_ , Matthew! Not all assholes want to live in a pigsty!” He threw a wolfish smile over his shoulder, glinting and sharp. Under the fluorescent lights, his pale skin shone a ghostly white. Gilbert shucked off his long, dark coat, a simple black shirt underneath and tossed it over the back of a desk chair. The lights drew attention to a toned chest and arms.

“And since we’re on ‘nothing personal’s…” Gilbert tilted his head at him, “You really don’t read as the sort of guy who’s into villainy.” 

And there it was. Matthew laughed down at his shoes, “Why does everybody always say that?” he mimicked Gilbert’s question. “What can I say? I’m not a neutral sort of guy.” Matthew made a face, “And I’m _certainly_ no hero.” 

Gilbert shrugged. “Works for me.” 

‘ _Works for me_.’ It was super simple, but something about it sent a ping of warmth through Matthew’s heart. Most people stuck around for a few more rounds of questions. 

Gilbert, however, had other things on his mind, already gravitating toward a metal box in the corner, striped around the edges with black and yellow caution tape. Matthew hesitantly drew nearer as Gil undid a padlock with a key and hefted a silvery instrument out onto a table. It was a cylinder with a conical nose charred and warped by, obviously, extreme heat. Gilbert made a ‘ta-da’ gesture, wrinkling his nose down at the incineration ray in distaste at its previous performance. 

“Well,” he said, “Here it is. I had to completely rebuild after… last time. But for this _new_ model, all I have to do is replace the muzzle, make a quick adjustment, and then it should be in working order and definitely not explode.” 

Matthew stared at it. This was all quite a bit to take in, he realized all at once. It felt like he’d stumbled into a position he wasn’t wholly qualified for. Gilbert had an entire lab for a basement. He’d engineered a ray that could send statues up in flames. Everything about Gilbert—down to the red of the irises of his eyes—marked him a proper supervillain from a mile away. Meanwhile, Matthew worked at Target. 

_Yet_ , Matthew reminded himself, it was the both of them stuck waiting for Reprimands week after week. Gilbert, for failed incineration. Matthew, for unintentional good deeds. The ray still needed work. Burning statues was still at the ‘in theory’ stage. Gilbert _needed_ Matthew—of all villains—on his side for a reason... and Matthew knew he needed Gilbert on his too. After all, looking at that incineration ray, even _he_ couldn’t make good come out of that. 

So Matthew smiled. “This is the model that will be making its grand debut, then?” 

“No, Matthew,” Gilbert said, dramatizing exasperation, “This is just a very impressive tool of extremely questionable legality. _We_ will be making _our_ grand debut as a supervillain duo to be both feared and funded.” He took a step toward him, almost a challenge. “What would you say to a villainous brainstorming session for where and when such a historic display will occur?” 

* * *

“Thank you for your time,” Kiku addressed the three people who had shown up to his speech as he drew it to a close, “Do you have any questions for me?” 

Two out of the three attendees, perhaps by way of answering, stood and walked out of the room—considering their time together over and done with. That left him with one. Kiku gave Vasch Zwingli a small smile as he stepped down from the podium. Vasch pulled himself from his seat with a certain tired reluctance Kiku was used to seeing in his students, the universal body language of ‘ _l_ _et’s get this over with_.’ It was fitting for him, Kiku thought; Vasch was nothing if not known for his attitudes. Kiku stood toe-to-toe with the leader of the Neutral Alliance, waiting expectantly. 

Vasch Zwingli sighed. “Kiku, you know I love a good talk about how idiotic the High Council is.” Kiku took the blow of Vasch’s tone in stride, receiving his answer in it. “The Neutral Alliance can appreciate your approach. But we can’t help you.” 

Kiku held his chin high, unwavering, “I am perfectly aware of the Neutral Alliance’s position on, ah, ‘partisan politics,’ but I urge you to consider—” 

Vasch waved him away. “Mr. Honda, you study supers. We don’t settle the messes of heroes and villains; I imagine a man in your field would know that. We’re here for an alternative to the nonsense. You, Mr. Honda, are a villain, in case you’ve forgotten. As such, giving villains an alternative is a _you_ problem, not a neutral problem.” 

“Mr. Zwingli, the Council—”

Vasch coughed on a humorless laugh. “Of course the ‘supervillain council’ is bad! They’re supervillains! That’s their whole thing!” Vasch crossed his arms over his chest, looking Kiku up and down with narrowed eyes, considering. “If you don’t like it, do something about it.” He shrugged a shoulder, “Or go Neutral, and leave the idiocy to somebody else.” 

“Mr. Zwingli, I’m here because I _admire_ the work you do—”

“—I’m glad,” Vasch cut him off yet again, “You can always be a part of it if you decide neutrality is right for you. But until then…” 

“How’d it go?” Yao asked as Kiku climbed into the passenger seat of his car in front of NAH—the Neutral Alliance Headquarters. Kiku let his head fall back against the headrest, immediately tugging at the knot of his tie. 

“Exactly as expected.” 

“Well, I would say ‘what did you expect?’ but…” Yao smiled over at him. Kiku didn’t quite have it in himself to return it. Yao rolled his eyes. “Kiku, _everyone_ knows the Council is a bunch of assholes! People have their reasons for working for them. I, for one, love what I do and they give me the means to do it! I wouldn’t have that without them! Do you think my restaurant brings in enough for that?” 

“And I _don’t_ work for them because I love what I do. Having to… Jump through their hoops, needing their permission… It goes against the whole spirit of it.” 

Yao scoffed. “Then take them out,” he retorted, “But the other villains will hate you because that’s their source of funding.” 

Kiku didn’t reply, watching the city buildings pass out the car window. 

After a time, Yao relented. “I’ll tell you what… I’ve got big plans for this evening—lots of shiny things to get our hands on, if you’d like to tag along.” 

Kiku side-eyed him. 

“ _And_ I’m not using a cent of Council funding for it.”

At that, Kiku couldn’t help but smile. 

* * *

Gilbert smacked the marker against the whiteboard, which was now a spider web of ideas, lines connecting many of them. Every now and then, Matthew’s additions were a tidy bullet point next to Gilbert’s scrawl. “OKAY!” he said, “We go bigger! New equipment! New powers on our side! This time we won’t torch just _one_ measly statue—” he made a grand gesture with the marker, accidentally making a new stripe across the board that he chose to ignore— “With my incineration ray and your powers, we’ll torch ALL of the statues in the Garden of the Greats, run and guarded by the Great Commission of Heroes itself!”

Matthew raised his drink and nodded his encouragement as Gilbert’s voice died back down. Gilbert, personally, was hoping for applause, but he’d take it.

He put his marker away. “Matthew, if we pull this off, we’re going to make the news.” 

“I hope we do.”

Gilbert considered him for a moment. “And do you really think we can pull this off?” he asked, “You know, without one or both of us getting arrested?”

Matthew shrunk in on himself slightly, but he was taking the question seriously. “Well,” he said, quiet, before looking up to meet Gilbert’s eyes, “I can get us in. They’re just walls, not a force field or anything.” He was picking up momentum as he went, straightening up in his seat, “I can fly right over. Invisible. They won’t see me, no alarms will get raised, and I’ll let you in through the front gate. Can’t be hard. By then, if we hurry, it’ll be too late for them to stop us.” He finished with a shrug, like he HADN’T spilled a plan fit for a SUPERVILLAIN TAG TEAM OF GREATNESS. 

“THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT, MATTHEW! We’ll be the biggest and baddest supervillains in the city in no time!” Matthew was already laughing, but Gilbert stuck out a hand to pull him to his feet. “We’ll be so famous and newsworthy they’ll _forget_ about your brother!” Gil dragged him close with an arm across his shoulders, waving broadly in front of them to frame his grand vision for him, “Before you know it, it’s going to be _your_ name on the front page headlines! They’re going to be writing shitty tabloid articles about how sexy _you_ are! We’re going to bring this city to its knees, Matthew, can’t you see it? A world where _we WIN_!” 

Gilbert clenched his fist, claiming it all. “Who could stop us?!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few more introductions this chapter! Thanks for reading!


	3. A Little Brotherly Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _With great power comes great responsibility_
> 
> _Except who signed up for powers OR responsibilities?_

Yao infiltrated the jewelry store ahead of Kiku, his elasticity making it an easy entry through the open second floor window—skimmed over by the closing shift workers because it was always kept locked. That is, until a wayward customer earlier in the day had paused his browsing to gaze down over the alley below, a wandering hand flipping the latch. 

They would set off the burglar alarms the moment either of them touched a display case, so this would certainly be a _time-sensitive_ heist, Kiku knew… But it was one he needed. His job as a graduate teaching assistant at his university did not go far to easing the many costs of living, student loans, and supervillainy. 

Financial need or not, though, Kiku mused to himself as Yao motioned to him from inside the store: he loved what he did. 

Kiku scaled the building with relative ease, catching the windowsill under his fingertips, and swinging a leg up and into the building. His powers were good—primarily—for allowing him to go about his work undetected. One couldn’t help but think they were _born_ for this line of work when one’s powers were a convenient package of silence, dexterity, and the ability to remain unseen without any real invisibility. It was a convenient package that all added up to equal _stealth_. Though, while the human senses glossed over Kiku, cameras remained a thorn in his side. For that reason, Kiku was dressed head to toe in black, his mask covering all but his eyes.

Yao was waiting for him, having already chosen a case to start with. Kiku peered around himself, taking in the jewels winking at them from displays, the precious metals glowing, and the security cameras in the corners watching. There were also the mirrors. Two or three mirrors on every glass case, behind them and in front of them on the walls, Kiku seeing fractals of his own reflection like a kaleidoscope around him in the low light. 

With steps quickened by adrenaline, Kiku chose a case of his own as his eyes settled on delicate strings of cut diamonds. 

Yao raised a hand—a countdown from three. 

Glass shattered and alarms cried out into the night. The closest police dispatch received an automatic alert. Two thieves in black worked quickly, but so did those who would stop them. 

Sirens started their wailing almost instantaneously, the nighttime traffic gradually carving a path for them directly to the location of the break-in. The dispatch wasn’t accustomed to dealing with a heist of this magnitude; these criminals were either unusually gutsy or unusually stupid, and this level of gutsy and stupid almost always pointed at this being the work of supervillains. So while they called for backup among their ranks they also made the decision to radio _another_ helping hand to their situation.

Meanwhile, Kiku Honda and Yao Wang stuffed duffel bags full of loot, working quickly, working quietly. Kiku’s mind was intent on the task, mostly because his next student loan payment would be due very soon. Yao’s mind, on the other hand, was still idly puzzling out the specifics of the new specialty tea he would be introducing to the restaurant he owned. 

Then, the downstairs door to the shop was busted in, complete with the indignant tinkling of the welcome bell. Two civilian police were the first on the scene. 

“We have guests,” Yao said to his brother, making up his mind to try out a couple more tweaks to his tea recipe with his boyfriend and some rice cakes once he returned home. Kiku, however, had already slipped soundlessly away down the stairs.

The police downstairs had their guns drawn, unsure of what they were dealing with but knowing it was trouble. They were sweating. There were too many display cases, too many nooks and corners for evildoers to hide behind.

What they didn’t know, was that their adversary didn’t need any of those to hide. 

The hair prickled on the back of one officer’s neck. Too late. Kiku swiped the taser from his belt, jabbing the man’s own weapon into his side while the other was busy shouting his surprise and discharging his handgun at an unlucky rack of bracelets, but then he too was joining his companion unconscious at the villain’s feet.

Kiku wiped the sweat collecting under his mask. More were coming. 

Yao, upstairs, was humming a song to himself, stretching his arm across the room to grab something delightful and jade he may just keep for himself. Downstairs there were shouts, but none of them were Kiku’s so he considered this fine. 

Kiku let the next couple cars of cops that screeched up the scene come to him, leaning in the shadow of a corner as they stampeded in. So long as he stayed still and quiet, they could look right at him and his powers would assure they would fail to notice him. The cops murmured plans among themselves as they began the process of scoping out the expansive shop, but as Kiku started toward them, one chimed in a helpful reassurance to the others: “The Captain should be here any minute!” Kiku halted, feet away from them, and then turned on a heel to hurry back up the stairs. 

Yao looked up at him, a _‘You’re back early,’_ already on his tongue when Kiku broke his news in one breath: Captain Jones was on his way. Yao’s face fell. He dropped his bag with a metallic clatter that made Kiku cringe and the officers below swing around toward the stairs. 

“ _What are you doing_?” Kiku hissed. 

“What? Do you want to go to jail?” Yao had already drawn the calligraphy brush he used for a villain signature to scrawl a message in English: _I left everything_. Kiku scowled as Yao signed it with a flourish previously reserved for successful heists. Yao offered the brush to him. Kiku hesitated. 

Yao made a noise of disgust, left the brush for him if he changed his mind, and went for the window. 

Kiku stared at the brush, rapidly weighing all his expenses against the very real danger of staying and coming up with a simple answer: he was broke. 

He dropped his duffel bag—it was too heavy for an exceptionally quick getaway—and started shoving jewelry into his pockets by the handful— 

—But his time was already up. 

Captain Jones arrived with a crash followed by the jubilant cheers of all the officers as he flew straight over their heads up the staircase—floating in place to survey the whole upstairs at once. The curtains were still fluttering on an open window. Captain Jones took the villain’s route out, finding nothing but an empty alleyway. He shot into the air, rising high above the buildings, scanning everything nearby…

… But coming up with nothing, save for a few fallen pieces of gold scattered on the sidewalk.

Kiku Honda collapsed into a seat on the city bus he’d tumbled onto, clutching the stitch in his side in one hand and his mask in the other. He’d escaped by the skin of his teeth and he knew it; ‘stealth’ did not happen to cover cases in which one is sprinting down a well-lit city sidewalk. Still struggling to quiet his gasps for air, he reached down to his pockets and winced. One was entirely empty. Though, at the very least, he still had the other. 

* * *

Arthur reclined on a bench in the recreation area, his eyes closed but his mind active. He’d had his failures, yes, but they would not be the end of him! He simply had to come up with another plan of escape. Something new. Something untried. These walls could never hold a villain like him for long!

“Kirkland,” the guard’s gruff voice startled him upright. “You’ve got mail.” 

Beilschmidt presented him with a bouquet of red roses. 

Arthur ground his teeth as he took them. There was a small note attached, signed with a heart, that read ‘ _From the hero who put you here.'_

“Oh, that absolute _wanker._ ”


	4. Supervillain Tag Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Human grace and dignity shall always prevail in the end_
> 
> _But I guess that’s assuming these guys had any in the first place_

Gilbert waited with bated breath in a bush. He wasn’t sure why he’d thought the bush was the best hiding spot, but—hey—it worked. The metal of his incineration ray was warm in his arms, the awkward weight of it feeling kind of like he was crouching with a leaf blower. A leaf blower that burned things, anyway. Matthew had gone invisible to do his bit, so he couldn’t exactly _see_ if they were any closer to success. Gilbert's bit was to stay put while Matthew did his, so he guessed they were incredibly successful on that front so far. 

The tall, ornate white walls surrounding the Garden kept the Commission’s petite slice of paradise carefully folded away from the harsh concrete of the city. Gilbert had only been to the Garden once on a high school field trip, during which he was promptly removed for setting off firecrackers in one of the fountains. Really, he didn’t know what the chaperones had been expecting; it wasn’t like the firecrackers were an isolated incident with him. 

He wasn’t sure if his ban from the premises extended into adult-villain-hood, but he hadn’t exactly had the desire to test it out; you had to pay actual money to get into the Garden the legal way. Though why the hell anybody—super or hero or otherwise—would _pay_ to go see some heroes’ ego trips was beyond him. 

A soft sound echoed from the Garden, Gilbert instantly perking up. He shifted onto the balls of his feet, ready to rush forward or book it out of there if something had gone wrong. But Matthew was invisible! He could fly! Somehow, Gilbert knew that _getting in_ wasn’t what they had to be worried about; _getting back out_ after the fact was going to be the trick. 

His heart was loud in his ears as the anticipation compounded, but then the gates—two huge gates with the Commission’s insignia on them—opened with a slow, drawn-out grandeur. Oh hell yeah. 

Gilbert clambered out of the bush, not quite as gracefully as he’d imagined, hastily brushing off twigs and composing himself with the most villainous strut he could muster. 

He gripped the incineration ray tight in his gloves, his long black coat sweeping along with him at every heavy step of his boots. He was the _picture_ of supervillainy, practically the poster boy!

He stepped right through the Commission’s ridiculous gates, triumphant. Unstoppable.

Then, he paused ever-so-slightly to look around himself. “... Matthew...?” he whispered into the quiet. 

“Right here,” Matthew said, from WAY closer than he’d been expecting. Gilbert cursed, stumbling. “Sorry.” Matthew turned visible. 

Gilbert took a breath, nodding. “Ready?” 

“One second.” Matthew reached up and picked a leaf from Gilbert’s hair. “Ready.” 

“Let’s do this.” 

The Garden if the Greats liked to brag that it was a favorite of artists, of romantics, and of hard-working heroes needing a break from all their city-saving. That being said, their clientele more often consisted of school trips, older individuals who enjoyed a nice power walk, and the occasional hero who felt like signing autographs in front of their own statue. Despite this, the Garden was generally considered a decent place. Lines of hero statues glowed a soft white under the city lights, surrounded by lush greenery kept in fragrant bloom year-round. Fountains sporting symbols of peace, justice, and heroism bubbled pleasantly at intervals. Gently curved paths eased visitors around wandering loops to view each monument and descriptive plaque at their leisure. 

The two breaking and entering villains didn’t really give much thought to any of this. 

The Silver Panic and the Canadian Menace, together, surged into the Garden of the Greats. 

Matthew Williams stayed some distance behind his companion, admittedly still half-expecting the ray gun to choose now to malfunction and explode. Gilbert Beilschmidt, on the other hand, had no such reservations as he marched straight up to the first statue he encountered—the current head of the Great Commission himself—raised the incinerator, and pulled the trigger. 

There was no explosion, and there was no malfunction. 

The incineration ray roared to life and the statue _burned_ as both villains shouted. 

When it was reduced to ash, they turned to look at each other in shock out from behind their twin pairs of welding goggles. “ _Holy fuck_ ,” Gilbert said, at the same time that Matthew let out out a:

“ _You did it_.” 

“WE did it, Flyboy!” Gilbert immediately corrected. He gripped the ray tighter in his gloved hands, a wild grin spreading across his face, “And we’re not done yet.” 

The villains moved down the line, looking a hero hailed as ‘great’ in his stony face and turning him to rubble at their feet. 

Meanwhile, the superhero alerted by the silent alarm on the gates begrudgingly showed up, yawning, expecting to shoo out a couple more teenage supers who’d made it over the walls, and was met instead with chaos. She fumbled for her phone, because the Commission absolutely did NOT pay her enough for this. “ _Yeah, I’m gonna need some backup here._ _Villains are torching the place_.” 

The villains—who, yes, had been busy torching the place—were not privy to the information that the hero at the gates had no plans to face down their incineration ray and whatever other sinister superpowers they may have at their disposal. The Canadian Menace noticed the hero first as the Silver Panic was charging up his incineration ray for another statue. He frantically tapped the Panic’s shoulder. 

The Silver Panic turned around, questioning, and saw the hero standing there too—silhouetted against the gates and the city as the flashing lights of first responders splashed the buildings behind her in sharp reds and blues. 

The villains, to put it politely, tucked their tails and ran for it, Matthew giving Gilbert a helpful, superpowered boost over the Garden’s far wall. And just like that, they were gone—disappearing into the night whooping with their victory and, for the first time in a long time, leaving a proper dash of _havoc_ in their wake. 

* * *

Gilbert slapped the next morning’s newspaper down between the two of them. Matthew deflated a little. There on the front page was the hero who’d discovered them… and his brother. The headlines depicted the heroes cooperating with civilian police, their faces the image of nobility and seriousness. 

Matthew rubbed his neck, “I know we didn’t get all the statues, but—” 

“—BUT WE GOT TWO!” Gilbert whipped the newspaper open to the _second_ page, showing security camera footage of the two of them illuminated in the fiery glow of the incineration ray. “AND WE MIGHT HAVE EVEN SINGED ANOTHER!” Gilbert was practically vibrating with his excitement, not at all concerned with the front page. 

And Gilbert was right, Matthew supposed. They _had_ done it. He straightened and nodded, letting a smile slip. Gilbert’s enthusiasm was irresistible. 

As if on cue, a fire broke out on Gilbert’s counter. 

They’d just had time to flinch when it promptly extinguished itself once more, leaving no trace that it had happened behind but a white square of paper. A message. 

Gilbert swiped it up and read it aloud:

_To the supervillain(s) it may concern,_

_On behalf of the High Council of Supervillainy, this card has been sent to offer congratulations on one or more successful acts of villainy._

_(If you believe you have received this card by mistake, please contact the Office for Commendations and tell them to jump in a lake.)_

Gilbert looked up at him. “MATTHEW, THESE ARE THE BIG LEAGUES!” He threw the card into the air like it was confetti. “This ‘teamwork’ thing isn’t so bad after all! WE HAVE TO GO BIGGER! MORE EXTREME!” 

Matthew held up a finger. “Um,” he said, “Maybe instead of upping the ante, we could focus on… trying to keep the ante the same for our next… dastardly deed?” 

“YOU GOT IT, FLYBOY. But only if you never use the word ‘dastardly’ in my presence again.” 

“Sure thing. Please stop calling me ‘Flyboy.’” 

“NOW WE’RE TALKING, BIRDIE.” 

“That’s not exactly what I—”

Gilbert stuck his hand out at him, cutting him off, “—Partners?” 

Matthew took his hand. “Partners.” They shook on it.


	5. The Power of Teamwork & Molotov Cocktails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Turns out you can outrun your problems_
> 
> _If you remember to bring your inhaler_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Friday, fiends and rapscallions. Here's another update!

Matthew took a seat on a bench outside of his workplace, peeling open the brown paper bag he’d placed a single peanut butter sandwich inside for his lunch. He swallowed a sigh as he sunk back into the bench. He was only about halfway through his shift and his feet were already killing him. 

He took a bite of his sandwich. If there was somebody out there who was built to stand for hours at a time scanning hundreds of items, smiling and making robotic small talk, Matthew didn’t feel like that person. Of course, he also didn’t feel like the person who was built to gather every shopping cart in the lot no matter the weather, or the person who should clean the nightmares that happened in public restrooms. Maybe there was somebody who was built for it though. 

What were lunch breaks for if not considering what life could be like if you weren’t stuck in your job? 

He took a bite of his sandwich.

Gilbert didn’t have a job—his job _was_ his villainy. Same thing with Alfred—never had to work a day in his life he didn’t want to. For the both of them, there was no way they could ever be anything _but_ a villain, anything _but_ a hero. Not a single doubt about it for either of them. For Matthew, the news that he was a villain usually came with a surprised look and more than a few questions. To be fair to those people, though, Matthew felt it too—like the puzzle pieces of his life might just be _slightly_ off. Like he must have missed out on something in the ‘have it all together’ department. 

He took a bite of his sandwich.

For a second, Matthew could almost pretend the permeating stench of cigarettes lingering around the bench outside of Target was the smell of statues burning. He could almost pretend he was standing tall and exhilarated beside someone who knew exactly what he was doing with his life. Gilbert was _entirely_ in his element as a supervillain, illuminated by flames, and the energy of someone completely, unabashedly, irrevocably in their element was contagious. And who knew? Maybe the feeling of knowing what he was doing with his life would rub off a little too. 

In the meantime… Matthew had half his shift left to go. 

Well, someone had to support his dog, he supposed. 

He took a bite of his sandwich. 

* * *

Francis pressed his cellphone between his ear and shoulder as he wandered through his apartment. He leaned to water the flowers on the windowsill as it rang, a river of people streaming by on the streets below. Even in the daylight, to his eyes most of them glowed golden—some more brightly than others. 

_Most_ , but not all, had glows. 

“ _Hello?_ ” 

Francis perked up, “Matthew! How are you, _mon puce_? I saw that you made the paper! And the second page! How exciting for you!”

His son laughed lightly, always one to be humble about his accomplishments. Yet, there was a slight strain to his voice Francis could not miss even as Matthew agreed and thanked him. It was not difficult to place where the strain might come from, and it played a low note in Francis’ heart. 

“Matthew, Papa is _so_ proud of you,” Francis made sure he knew. 

Another thanks, then, for that. 

There was really no need to address the unspoken between them. He had _two_ sons of whom he was very proud. One of his hard-working boys had made the second page of the newspaper; the other had made the first. He was happy for them both. 

He hoped _both_ of them knew that.

“You really _must_ come over for dinner tomorrow!” He told him. “We should celebrate!” Francis gasped suddenly, inspiration coming to him. “I will make crème brûlée!” 

Matthew, once more, agreed. 

* * *

Kiku stepped soundlessly forward into the Council’s lounge, rolling Vasch’s words around his mind once more. Feet away, the next door over, all of the Councilmembers laughed and sipped wine together in their boardroom like it was serious business. They were caricatures of villainy, all of them. _If you don’t like it, do something about it._

The Council’s expansive collection of assorted alcohols took up an entire wall, tens—if not hundreds—of thousands of dollars in fancy beverages. It was a boast. It stood unsecured, a garish display of power and wealth tossed around like Monopoly money for those who may catch a glimpse inside the lounge on their way to a meeting with the room of snakes next door. It was a dare.

Kiku was going to be the first brave fool to take them up on that dare. 

The lounge was not the place for a confrontation; it was windowless, one way in and one way out. Besides, his audience had already so conveniently gathered themselves nearby. 

Kiku grabbed two large wine bottles collecting dust on the top shelf, and he walked directly into the Council’s meeting. Six sets of eyes (well, five _sets_ —one member had an eyepatch) turned to look up at him. One checked his watch for the time, another’s focus was on the wine like Kiku in his mask and dark costume may be a delivery boy, but they all looked _supremely_ bored with the interruption. 

The Executive leaned back in his seat and swirled his drink around his glass. “Do you have an appointment?” 

Kiku squared his shoulders in the doorway. He’d practiced his speech for them like he practiced his research presentations. “I am here because—” he began, the voice modulator he wore under his mask shifting his voice lower and louder. 

“—Come back when you have an appointment,” The Executive interrupted. “You can leave the wine on the table.” 

Kiku ground his teeth. He started forward, extending his arms to either side and shattering the tops off both bottles on the doorframe. The Executive sighed as Kiku let the liquid run red as blood onto the carpet as he made his way to the front where the Executive watched his every step with an annoyed weariness. Kiku stopped just behind the Executive, for all the Council to see. 

“That _will_ be coming out of your paycheck,” the Executive sighed into his glass, not giving Kiku even the grace of swiveling in his seat. 

The supervillain Kiku Honda was nameless to the world save for the titles headlines would gift him. The High Council of Supervillainy had no idea who had interrupted their meeting, nor did they particularly care yet. In their minds, the interloper would soon be taken care of, done away with, _removed_ … but the Executive had to be the one to make the first move. After all, the Executive could make sure any of _them_ would be taken care of, done away with, removed if—for some unfathomable reason—he wanted to hear what this ant had to say. 

The Executive by no means wanted to hear what Kiku Honda had to say. He did, however, want to go back to being in absolute control of his meeting and drinking his wine in peace. 

“I don’t work for you,” the intruder said. 

The Executive eyed the stains on the floor, taking an unhurried moment to absorb the intruder’s claim. 

“Well, I _would_ ask you why you’re soiling my carpets, then, but I would have to care first.” The other Councilmembers waited for the Executive’s direction, lips curled in disgust at Kiku’s audacity. The Executive read this of the others. He glanced at the time on his phone. “Tell you what. How long does your spiel take? If you can get it over with fast, I will ask you why.” 

The Executive had no intention of wasting his own time. He _did_ , at this point, have every intention of shaking the gloved hand of their unwanted guest. And he had every intention of watching the primal horror in his eyes as the powers were sapped from his body at the Executive’s parasitic touch. Then, he had intentions to order a replacement shipment of that wasted Chambertin. 

“Boss…” one of the Councilmembers said, voice low and one eye wide. 

The Executive waved him away, still waiting for his answer. If their guest had something to say, he could submit to the humility of saying it under the Executives terms. 

“ _Boss_ ,” another Councilmember said, clipped and pointed. It wasn’t that the Councilmember _didn’t_ trust the Executive to know what the villain behind him was up to; it was just that the Councilmember would feel a lot better if the Executive would _turn around_. 

The Executive scowled at his underlings, who were all half out of their seats by now. 

It was then that the Executive smelled something… funny. 

He let his chair rotate around. 

Kiku Honda, save for his diminutive stature, stood tall—a silhouette in all black against the sprawling backdrop of the city skyline. He’d brought a capped bottle with him into the building, the contents of which he’d emptied into one of the wine bottles, corking it with a rag. He had more than a speech to deal out to the High Council. 

And he wouldn’t play the Executive’s games to deliver either of them. 

“BOSS,” one of the Councilmembers helpfully squeaked as Kiku put a lighter to the Molotov cocktail, but the Executive was shocked to silence. 

The supervillain in black, nameless, smashed the concoction in the middle of their long, polished meeting table where it erupted in flames. Forgetting all that they thought they were, the Councilmembers scrambled and flailed backward from the heat. 

The fire painted Kiku in dancing, ghostly hues of orange as he raised his chin and his voice before them. Without any need for a name, the supervillain let the High Council know _precisely_ who he was. And that he would be the end of their regime, and to the corporate embarrassment they’d twisted his craft into. 

Kiku delivered his lines like they were facts flowing from his lips, like he was already the cunning professor he was studying to become. 

But fire could only scatter the wits of the superpowered for so long, especially after one of the Councilmembers remembered he was a fire elemental, that his superpower was fire, and that he now conveniently had a lot more fire to work with to take care of pesky insurgents. 

Kiku Honda, however, was already done with his villainous speech and very well recognized the need to leave since he was standing quite close to a man who could incapacitate him with a touch. 

With that over, Kiku climbed onto the nearby windowsill and removed himself from the building. 

He swung smoothly from the window, catching the window ledge below between his fingers as flames billowed from where he’d just been. Kiku smiled to himself as the Executive shouted at the Councilmembers, and then into a phone about _not letting him get away_. Of course they were too lazy to do it themselves. Nevertheless, he should probably take the head start. 

Kiku eyed the building next to the tower over his shoulder, the top of it stories upon stories beneath where he was hanging by his hands. He took a breath, then let go. It was a controlled fall, and then it was gaining momentum, and then it was the adrenaline of a _leap—_

—And his feet connected with the surface of the roof of the building, already well-removed from where he’d been not a minute before. From there, he took off, jumping roof after roof, putting as much space as he could between him and the Council—

—The first glance he took over his shoulder, though, revealed that they wouldn’t be letting him off the hook so easily. There was a group of enormous villains— Kiku counted five—and they were after him. Kiku’s breath caught in his throat. One flew, another scampered along the walls of high-rises like a salamander, the rest—undoubtedly supers as well—knifed through traffic on motorcycles. They would cut him off no matter which route he took: the roofs or the roads. 

Putting a conscious effort into concealing himself, Kiku took a sharp turn, bounded across several buildings, and finally slipped into the shadows to catch his breath. 

The Council's henchmen rounded the corner, looking in every direction. Kiku grinned to himself as he watched their collective confusion. He could observe them all he wished from where he stood, but they would never be able to spot him. They seemed to defer to one member in their midst—a slight individual compared with the hulking stature of the others. They converged on him for guidance on what to do next. The leader said something to them, and Kiku’s blood chilled as—at once—they all turned to face his direction. 

He stayed fully still. They couldn’t see him. Human senses couldn’t see him. If he darted they may be able to catch the movement. He only had to stay still. The one who flew assisted the leader to the roof a couple buildings over, moving from there with the one who climbed in tow.

The henchmen were wandering much too close for his comfort, but they _couldn’t see him_. 

The leader set foot on Kiku’s roof, only the length of the building away. Kiku held his breath, half-convinced the pounding of his heart would give him away. 

Then, the leader turned his head and looked him directly in the eye, and Kiku’s hair stood on end. He should have run. “Cool powers,” the leader called, raising a hand and pointing the goons to his exact location, “Mine are cooler.” 

Kiku ran. He threw himself off the building, catching the edge of the next one and scraping his knee against the bricks. He cursed, hoisting himself up and over the edge. 

_They were too close, they were too close, they were too close._ He couldn’t keep this up. He couldn’t lose them with the leader on their side—undoubtedly a super unaffected by others’ powers. Kiku couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. His knee was bleeding, his muscles screaming. Kiku swept the skyline around himself, desperation clawing its way into his throat. _What could shake a pack of supervillains?_

Then, like every segment on the news he despised, he saw it, and he knew where he had to go and what he had to do. 

There was only one person who could send experienced villains running the other direction. 

And it wasn’t far. 

Kiku dropped to the ground, a motorcycle engine revving much, much too close. Pedestrians screamed as the villains on the ground yanked their bikes onto the sidewalk after him, all the others not far either. They had no intention of letting him even reach the building. 

But he did. 

Mustering everything he had in him, Kiku climbed the fire escape. _Why did he have to live at the TOP?_ Like a pack of dogs, the goons were nearly upon him. _What if they got to Kiku before he reached the top? What if he wasn’t home?_ Kiku shoved it all down. He couldn’t afford thoughts like that. 

Kiku ran out of fire escape. Not far below him, feet pounded on the metal stairs. A cry ripped itself from Kiku’s throat as he took both fists to the window, beating on it in desperation. In an afterthought, he tore off his mask and shoved it in his back pocket. 

* * *

Alfred’s head snapped up from the TV at the loud knocking, pausing his game. The sound wasn’t coming from the door; it was coming from… his bedroom? 

The fire escape. 

Al crossed his living room in a couple bounds and threw back the curtains, registering the fear in the eyes of the man outside instantly. “ _Help. Please. I need help_ ,” he pleaded as Alfred fumbled clumsily with the window latch. 

_Forget it_. Alfred snapped the latch between his fingers with his super strength, the window swinging open at once. The stranger fell inside. Alfred caught him. 

Their eyes locked. 

A little breath fell from Alfred’s lips. _Oh_. He was pretty. 

“— _I’m being chased_ ,” the man said in a rush, causing Alfred to shove that aside, “It’s the High Council of Supervillainy. They’re after me.” 

Alfred had been tracking, but ‘High Council of Supervillainy’ effectively threw him for a loop. “What? The Council—? Wait, _all_ of them?” 

“Their henchmen,” the man gasped, and Alfred took a second to assess how he was doing. He was breathing like he’d run a marathon—sweating like it too. And he was shaking. Alfred pulled one of his blankets from his bed, securing it across the citizen’s shoulders, guiding him to sit down—which he did, but only seemed to realize it afterward. 

“Are you hurt?” Alfred asked him. 

He shook his head, looking dazed. Alfred guessed he would be too if he’d just ran up the fire escape with a bunch of villains on his tail. 

“I’ll take care of it. Wait here; I’ll be right back. They won’t lay a finger on you, I promise.” 

In his T-shirt and jeans, Alfred hopped out the window, rising above the building. He spotted three villainous characters already having turned to run for it, but there were two on the fire escape. Alfred swooped down, scooped them up by the backs of their shirts. They struggled against him, but—big or not—they were no match for his strength. Alfred glanced around for something he could use, his gaze settling on the metal poles at a nearby construction site. 

Restraining the supervillains with one hand, he bent the poles like they were pipe cleaners with the other. 

It wasn’t his _best_ work, just metal wrapped around a streetlight tying the two to it, nothing fancy, but it would definitely hold them until the cops got here to pick them up. He sent the Chief a quick text to make sure that happened relatively quickly, before their buddies could double-back to see what’d happened to them. 

Around him, civilians cheered at his success before he soared back up to his penthouse. 

The window still hung open, the curtains swaying gently in the breeze. 

The man was gone, the blanket the only sign he’d ever been there at all. Alfred flew back out the open window, scanning the whole area, but there was no trace of him to be found. He’d simply disappeared into the night—a mysterious, beautiful figure. 


	6. Family Dinners & Assorted Property Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Family dinners function both as quality time together,_
> 
> _And an underrated form of torture._

Vasch Zwingli sat behind his and his younger sister Lily’s joint booth at the city Farmers' Market, the two of them having sandwiches from the local deli. Vasch liked the Farmers' Market. There were always people, but it was never a crowd. Business was conducted at a slower pace there than in the rest of the city. 

People made more sense at the Farmers' Market, Vasch had always thought. 

Vasch could sell his goat cheese, Lily could sell her flowers, and they didn’t have to give any of it to idiots who annoyed them. The press had learned to leave him _alone_ at the Farmers' Market, saving their stupid questions for when Vasch was back at NAH.

“The weather is beautiful today,” Lily commented. 

“It is,” Vasch agreed. 

There was a resounding CRASH from outside the bounds of the Market, a villain screeching a villainous declaration, followed by a hero shouting a heroic declaration and another SLAM as they carried on with their scuffle. 

Vasch shared a look with Ned across the aisle, a Dutch man who played the part of the Neutral Alliance’s treasurer. Vasch liked Ned because he was nearly as disenchanted with the mess of the city as Vasch himself was. Lily liked Ned because he sold flowers too, neatly arranged bouquets of tulips from his small plot of land just outside city limits, and because he exclusively posted pictures of his bunny to his social media. 

“I heard it’s supposed to rain this weekend, though,” Vasch told Lily, taking another bite of his sandwich. 

“That’ll be good for the plants. It’s been rather dry lately.” 

Vasch hummed his agreement, settling more comfortably into his chair. 

With another SMASH and accompanying shouts, of course, the hero and the villain smashed into someone’s booth, carefully stacked fruit rolling as the two kept sparring. Lily winced in sympathy for the vendor. Ned held a lighter to his pipe. 

* * *

Matthew buzzed his father’s loft, the door almost instantly clicking open for him. He climbed the worn but polished stairs. He and Papa chatted often, and Matthew came over when he could. Papa was always a busy man—he seemed to keep it that way more than ever—but Matthew also knew he could use the company. 

Papa threw open the door. “ _Bon soir_ , Matthew!” A squeezing hug. “ _Ça va_?” 

“ _Oui, ça va_ _bien._ ”

Papa gave him a quick once-over. If he saw anything, he didn’t show it. He never did. The thing about having a father who saw soulmates was that Matthew could never be sure what that once-over was _for_ , whether it meant Matthew was suddenly glowing an order of magnitude brighter to Papa’s eyes, having gotten closer to his apparent ‘true love,’ or if Matthew even had a soulmate—he may not glow at all; Papa would never tell, never meddle in something so serious. More likely, though, Papa was just wanting to see if he was eating enough. 

Matthew stepped inside, magnetized by the smell of whatever wonderful thing Papa had made. 

Then Matthew stopped. Ah. 

Alfred waved at him from the table. 

He guessed it made sense that this would be a _family_ dinner, but… a little heads up would’ve been… appreciated. Matthew made sure to put on a smile as he took his seat opposite his twin. Papa sat at the head of the table between them. “It’s so good to have you both here!” Papa cooed, spreading a hand toward them both while Alfred looked at Matthew and Matthew looked at Alfred. “My newsworthy boys!” 

Matthew could basically write Alfred’s speeches for him at this point, and just tried not to cringe as Papa started off by putting it like _that_. He knew exactly what was about to come out of Alfred’s mouth. “You know…” Alfred said, and Matthew took the opportunity to load up his plate with Papa’s cooking, “I wouldn’t have _had_ to make a newsworthy appearance if _someone_ didn’t think evil was cool.” 

There were probably a lot of things that could be said about Alfred’s word choice there, but Matthew was busy trying the potatoes. 

“Now, Alfred…”

“What was the _point_ of that, though? The Garden of the Greats? Matthew, you’re better than that, man! Why do you—or anybody—want to be a bad person?” 

The potatoes were really, really good. Matthew took his time about chewing them. 

“Alfred, we all know that Matthew isn’t a ‘bad person’—” Papa placated. 

“—I know he’s not! He’s my brother! But villains literally call themselves villains because they literally think they’re ‘not good.’” Alfred was obviously upset about this idea. He always had been. Papa always explained away Alfred’s convictions as villainy being simply ‘against his nature.’ “Papa, you’re a hero; you tell him!” Alfred whined, since it was beyond his reach.

Matthew sat with his hero brother and his hero father, poking his fork at his salad as Papa let a beat pass. 

“... So, Alfred, you’ve been working closely with the Commission lately,” Papa finally said, tone light as ever, “Tell us about that.” 

And Alfred did, after only minimal huffing and puffing. He told them all about working with the Great Commission of Heroes. Huh, Matthew thought to himself, heroes really liked the descriptor ‘great’ for themselves. Great Commission of Heroes, Garden of the Greats, ‘wow we superheroes are all so great and just.’ They liked ‘just' quite a bit too. Maybe he _should_ get a side gig writing superhero speeches; it had to be better than his current job at Target which barely made ends meet. All he would have to do is throw a ‘peace,’ ‘justice,’ ‘public safety,’ and ‘courage’ in there every few lines and the crowds would go nuts. Would that pay better than Target?

Of course, they would definitely stop paying him to write superhero speeches if they found out he was a supervillain, in this imaginary scenario. Target would even hand him a pink slip if he was ever apprehended and got an arrest warrant under his actual name and not The Canadian Menace. Everyone at work already knew he was a super, even if not what kind of super; flying is an unusually handy skill for fetching things from the tall shelves in the back. He and Alfred had both gotten flying as a power, but Alfred was the one who got the super strength. Matthew, of course, had the invisibility. 

Matthew’s mind then wandered to the multitude of times Alfred had been the one who’d thwarted him. 

And Alfred kept talking about how chummy he was with the whole Commission, being—in his words and everybody else’s—the biggest superhero in the city and all. 

“—And I kicked some _serious_ butt today out by the Farmers' Market. This guy was nuts! He was all ‘I’m going to burn this city to the ground’ and I was all ‘ _not today_ , dude’ and then I was like _BLAM_ and the head of the Commission called to congratulate me when he heard because this guy had been on our radar for WEEKS and—”

“So,” Matthew paused him, since Alfred had no off button, “If they give you a job with the Commission, would you not be able to come to dinner anymore?” 

Alfred burned _bright_ red and stumbled over everything he had left to say. 

“‘No fraternizing with villains,’” Matthew reminded him, since that was the one thing the Commission specifically was known for. Their members were so high on their horses that it was against their Great moral code to associate with any of the city’s villainous scum. It was their job, after all, to put a stop to it—their ‘great commission.’ 

Papa looked to Al too, curious for the answer. 

“Dude, it’s _totally_ not like that!” Alfred laughed like it was silly, but also like he wasn’t too sure he knew. Al straightened up in his seat and cleared his throat. “It’s not like that!” he said again in another direction for good measure. “But, I mean, if you’re wanting to be sure, you could always come back to the good side.” Al took a bite of potatoes. 

Matthew shrugged. 

Papa took a drink of milk, then, “So do either of you have someone special in your lives?” 

Matthew groaned, as he and Alfred always did when Papa _always_ asked, but this time Alfred didn’t join in. He was suddenly willing to keep his mouth shut, which naturally brought all eyes to him. Alfred coughed at the expectation, shaking his head much faster than necessary. “Nah,” he said, very convincingly, “It’s just… I _did_ save someone the other day who was…” he shook his head again, “It’s nothing. I didn’t even get his name.” Alfred scrunched his eyebrows, something turning the gears in his head that he didn’t share with either of them. 

Matthew’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out to silence it, then saw it was Gilbert. 

* * *

Arthur painted the portal sigil in spaghetti sauce he’d smuggled from the cafeteria. It wasn’t the _most_ ideal texture for painting, but it was what he had to work with. Shaking his fingers free of most of the tomato chunks, he began his incantation. 

He was nearly halfway through, when he peeked his eyes open to find that most of his sigil had dripped slowly down the wall in a cascade of red goop. He cursed, hurrying to layer on more before the next guard cycled back ‘round past his cell. 

“Why does it smell like tomatoes...?” Arthur nearly jumped out of his socks at the voice. “Ah. I see,” said the voice, which unfortunately belonged to Officer Beilschmidt. 

Arthur stared frozen at the guard, caught red-handed more literally than he’d have preferred. The guard took a moment to survey the mess. 

“I’ll…” Ludwig gestured vaguely, sighing, “I’ll call someone from maintenance. My shift is over in ten minutes; I’ll have _anyone else_ speak with you about this” 

* * *

Matthew walked from dinner to Gilbert’s. He considered just going home and walking Kumajiro. A sense of obligation pulled him toward his partner in crime. A sense of being exhausted dragged him the other way, where his bed was waiting for him to collapse into it in all his clothes. Ultimately, he wasn’t too sure he’d made a conscious decision either way, but some sense of something made sure he wound up at Gilbert’s.

The building looked the same as most others in the area, all of them appearing older than they were from the grime of the city. Gilbert’s text read only ‘COME OVER IF YOU CAN!!!!!!!’ Pulling one of his hands from his jacket pocket, Matthew rang Gilbert’s apartment. The intercom picked up almost instantly. “MATTHEW?”

“Yep.”

“GOOD. GET DOWN HERE—I HAVE SOMETHING TO SHOW YOU.” 

The building door clicked open to let him into an entryway scuffed by the traffic of people.

Gilbert had space on the ground floor and basement, so ‘down here’ was his lab. Uncomfortable family dinner aside, being here put a spark of _something_ in his stomach—the same something as when that first statue had gone down in flames, the same something as when he’d seen their security-camera photos in the newspaper. It wasn’t big, it wasn’t grand, but it was something. And it wasn’t half bad. Matthew raised his hand to knock on the door, but it flew open before he could. 

“MATTHEW!” Gilbert’s face was nearly blackened with grease or soot or whatever he was working with, extending all the way up into his silvery-white hair like something had blown up in his face and he’d just smeared it around. 

“What... happened?” 

“What? Oh. I’ve been working. COME ON YOU’RE GOING TO LOVE THIS. I’VE BEEN WORKING ON IT FOR WEEKS! I’D ALMOST GIVEN UP ON IT!” 

Gilbert turned and bounded down the concrete stairs to his lab, leaving the door open for Matthew to follow. Matthew trailed after him, Gilbert’s enthusiasm starting to melt whatever had gotten a little frosty over dinner. 

The smell of metal and burning permeated the stairwell. Vaguely, Matthew wondered if Gilbert had had to disable all the fire alarms in his place. That, though, begged the question of how many times the building was evacuated before Gilbert had. A small smile tugged at his face as he descended, picturing Gilbert a half-charred mess trying to come up with an excuse for his landlord. 

Gilbert was waiting for him, gripping a tarp covering… something. 

Matthew’s social battery was basically dead, but the look in Gilbert’s eyes charged up something new in him altogether.

Gilbert yanked the tarp back, revealing his creation. 

His creation looked to Matthew an awful lot like a motorcycle. Because it was. It was a motorcycle. It was a _nice_ motorcycle and everything—big, black, shiny. It had a skull on it. Matthew guessed he was just expecting something more ‘instrument of evil’ like, say, an incineration ray. 

“Nice!” Matthew said. 

Gilbert rolled his eyes. “ _Please_. You haven’t even seen what it does yet. If I wanted a motorcycle fixed up, I could go to a mechanic.” Gilbert slung a leg over it, revving the engine loud enough that Matthew looked to the walls for soundproofing. 

When he looked back to Gilbert, all the oxygen left his lungs in a rush. Gilbert was in the air. 

Gilbert cast a wolfish grin down at him as the engine gave an idle purr. Awestruck, Matthew stepped up into the air, moving higher with each step until he stood before Gilbert and the flying motorcycle. “ _Wow_ ,” he breathed. 

“That’s more like it,” Gilbert nodded, obviously proud. He had every right to be. “Looks like I can keep up with you now, Birdie.” Another toothy grin that Matthew couldn’t help but return. 

“How… did you…?” 

Gilbert shrugged evenly. “Call it my superpower.” He extended a hand stained the color of charcoal to Matthew. Matthew took it without question and let him guide him onto the back of the bike, because he was still trying to reclaim his breath. “Hold on,” Gilbert said, his body warm between Matthew’s calves. 

“Wait—”

The motorcycle roared to life, some terrible beast with some terrible power that Gilbert alone was the master of. Matthew barely had time to throw his arms around Gilbert’s ribcage before the bike leaped forward. He thought he might’ve yelped, but he was too focused on not taking a tumble off the back—something that didn’t sound like the best idea, even for someone who could fly—to process much of anything. 

Gravity and inertia and all sorts of things Matthew had learned about in high school physics played tricks with his stomach as Gilbert brought the bike in a steep descending circle around his lab. 

The wheels touched the ground with a shrill squeak, Gilbert easing the motorcycle back to a halt. 

Matthew unburied his head from between Gilbert’s shoulder blades. Had he kept his eyes shut that whole time? Gilbert twisted to look back at him, that ever-present smile stretching only wider. His body was warm between Matthew’s thighs. He scooted back a tad on the bike. “You good back there, Birdie?” 

Matthew felt like he had swallowed his throat. His heart was going a million miles an hour. His knees weren’t sure they were ready to be knees again yet. And he burst out laughing, tipping back onto his hands. “How does this thing do in the wind?” 

Gilbert’s eyes flashed—that driving fire stoked inside of him. He _loved_ what he did. “Want to find out?” 

Matthew shrugged reasonably. “Hell yeah.” A matter of fact. 

“I like you, Matthew.” 

“Should we get suited up for this little misadventure, in case we get some press?” 

“Oh, I can make _sure_ we get some press, Birdie.” 

* * *

Ludwig settled into his armchair with a book and a warm mug of tea he’d been informed calmed the senses. Admittedly, as Ludwig grimaced through each sip, he had yet to acquire the taste for tea… or maybe it was the taste for calming the senses… 

Ludwig flinched at the hard rap on the window, splashing tea all over the words of Goethe. 

Of course, it was his brother waving at him from the fire escape. He set his tea and poetry aside, crossed the room, briefly considered closing the curtains, but ultimately slid the window open. “You could call, you know. Or use the intercom.” 

“But where’s the fun in THAT, Luddy?!” Gilbert squeezed his way into Ludwig’s living room. 

“You smell like you’ve been on fire.” 

“Yeah I figured I’d shower when I get back. I’ve been working real hard, you know. Did you see me in the newspaper? I _did_ it, Luddy! It worked! Aren’t you proud of your big brother?!” 

Ludwig pinched the bridge of his nose, briefly. “Gilbert,” he said, “You shouldn’t be here. You have several warrants out for you— _under your name_. I should arrest you on the spot.” 

Gilbert spread his arms wide, though his smile was perhaps wider. “Well! Here I am! Prime for the arresting!” 

Gilbert laughed, then, like he found himself hilarious. Ludwig supposed the small smile bleeding onto his own face didn’t help with that. He pressed it from his expression. 

“I’ve been doing really well, actually!” Gilbert told him, conversational. “The Council hasn’t fired me yet; I got a _congratulations_ from them yesterday, Ludwig! I’ve got this new partner, you see—he was in the newspaper with me. He’s a real good guy— _well_ , bad, but you get it. I think I’m liking this teamwork thing.” Gilbert tapped a finger against his chin. “Now that I think about it, the more the merrier; am I right? You could always join us on our little scheme we’ve got planned tonight.” 

Ludwig hummed, reclaiming his tea from the table. “And would you care to share the details about that?” Gilbert was already climbing back out the window.

Gilbert threw his head back to laugh out on the fire escape. “Good one! Bye, Luddy; great seeing you! Send lots of your friends!” Ludwig groaned internally, wishing he wouldn’t _make him_ call it in. Why couldn’t his brother be a _normal_ villain, and try to _avoid_ getting caught in police searchlights? 

“ _Please_ stay safe—” he started grumbling, but Gilbert already wasn’t listening, choosing instead to send Ludwig’s stomach into knots as he climbed up onto the railing of the fire escape—

—Ludwig gasped and surged forward, spilling the rest of his tea across the carpet as Gilbert ACTUALLY JUMPED over the edge—

—But then an engine revved and, like something out of a dream, his brother roared off into the night on a motorcycle speeding seven stories above the city traffic, howling with his partner at the Moon. 

* * *

The wind tore Matthew’s hair back, rushed into his face and lungs until the laughter overflowed from him. The sky was black, a precious few brave stars peeking out from behind the light pollution to see what all the fuss was about down there. 

Gilbert shouted back up at the sky, the vibrations of it travelling to Matthew through his arms wrapped around his waist until Matthew’s voice joined his. Matthew’s blood and body and _being_ was singing, or screaming. He was against the whole world with nobody on his side but Gilbert, the stars, and the Moon, and all at once it was so beautiful and the insanity of it all didn’t matter. 

The city was only ants and toy blocks below the two of them. 

“Shall we rearrange it?” 

And then there was a metal baseball bat in Matthew’s hand; he’d picked it out himself. 

Gilbert dove the bike down, hooting like he was on a rollercoaster and not very much in control of whether they crashed or not.

In the back of Matthew’s mind, something told him that none of his family members would recognize him like this, and he laughed louder until it drowned it out. Gilbert reached out with a bat of his own and swung. A streetlight shattered with a shower of glass and sparks, but it was already behind them. 

Matthew's dark parka shielded him from the bite of the wind and glass alike. Gilbert was in all black, a bandanna covering the lower half of his face; the goggles protecting his eyes matched Matthew’s. And Gilbert had a superhero brother too. Matthew laughed and left a stop sign bent in half in his wake. _They were matching family disappointments._

Gilbert’s silver hair matched the Moon under the city lights, but he smelled like the Sun. 

And he was right; this city needed rearranged. Matthew’s bat connected with a digital billboard where superheroes were getting standing ovations and enormous checks. It needed a full on do-over. 

On cue, lights and sirens started up behind them. Gilbert gunned the bike forward and up. They were out of reach, untouchable. They transformed the windows of empty office buildings into fireworks, several stories out of the civilian cops’ grasps. There was a beauty in upheaval, and disobedience, in leaving it all behind, in flying above it. After all, what did the city have for Matthew? 

An exhausting job at a superstore? Glass was a spray on his gear, sharp as the wind on his cheeks. Rent payments leaving little room for error? Gilbert flipped off the several police cars below, laughing down at them. Not being taken seriously by villains and heroes alike? Matthew clenched his teeth tight, the sirens and shattering and shouting an orchestra in his ears. Constant comparisons to his heroic, celebrity twin he couldn’t have less in common with? Matthew slightly rose from his seat to give his swing every last ounce of momentum he could, a yell ripping from his throat. 

Below them, there was the crack of a warning shot. If the civilian cops couldn’t reach their level, they would drag them down to their own, having decided they were officially a proper public danger. Gilbert cursed them, heaving the bike further upward.

Matthew clung tighter to the body in front of him, breath stolen as the police megaphone slowly melded into all the rest of the city noise. Gilbert groaned a sigh as he finally leveled out the bike. With a heart still pounding, Matthew snuck a peak down at the city lights below. The police cars swarmed and crowded the glowing streets like angry wasps. He let his head fall forward to rest between Gilbert’s shoulder blades, shaking with laughter as the adrenaline began to settle in his system. 

Then Gilbert was laughing too, the two of them idling steadily along in the night sky—the two of them a single satellite eclipsing the Moon. 

Matthew had always liked it here, in the sky, above it all. It was quieter. But he was starting to think he might like it better with the scent of leather and metal and burning that Gilbert had about him. 

“ _Scheiße_.” 

Matthew lifted his head. 

“Ah. _Merde_ ,” he agreed. 

The police helicopter heading full speed ahead toward them may put a damper on their evening. Matthew’s heart worked its way up into his throat as it thundered closer. And closer. “Uh, Gil…?” 

“Oh! Right. On it.” The bike lurched forward once more. “THIS IS A NEW ONE FOR ME!” Gilbert shouted to him over the wind. 

“Yeah, me too!”

All at once, the world was bleached white and hot as the helicopter trapped them in its spotlight. Gilbert dodged and weaved, but it followed. They were yelling something at them on a speaker system that got snatched away by the wind. 

Gilbert only wrestled the bike faster, trying to coax out a few more miles per hour from it— 

Then, the whole world was knocked from its axis in a single instant of _impact_. 

There was no air in Matthew’s lungs, and nothing solid above or below him. He tumbled and spiraled through the air.

With a Herculean effort, he pulled himself to a stop midair, so disoriented that for a few beats he didn’t realize he was upside-down. Gilbert’s screams sliced through the vertigo. Matthew looked wildly around for where his companion had been thrown from the bike. 

Gilbert was a streak of white hurtling toward the Earth in a flailing mass of limbs. Matthew didn’t think. He just dove. 

He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until the body hit him. Or he hit Gilbert. It was more of a diagonal tackle than anything. Gil was still busy screaming at a pitch that had to hurt as Matthew got his arms around him and brought his free fall to a halt. 

“ _I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you_ , _stop yelling—_ ouch— _stop kicking_.” 

“ _They shot my bike_!” Gilbert’s hair was sticking straight up, his goggles completely askew on his forehead, the bandanna over the lower half of his face gone. His hands stopped scrambling for purchase, settling on Matthew’s shoulders.

Gilbert regained his breath, and so did Matthew, and it occurred to the both of them at once that Matthew was holding him. Their eyes met. 

Gilbert’s mouth was ever-so-slightly parted. 

Matthew swallowed hard, quick to look anywhere else. The police helicopter was still there, so that gave him a convenient place to focus. “So, uh. How about let’s call it a night, eh?”


	7. Various Villains & Some Light Arson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Heroes are humanity’s only hope, standing up in the name of peace and justice_
> 
> _These guys are kinda like that, I guess_

“You guys won’t _believe_ the week I’ve had!” Alfred told the Great Commission of Heroes, which was a bunch of super cool dudes and lady dudes who wore tuxes to their meetings that they invited Alfred to. They didn’t make Alfred wear a tux so he stood in front of them in his super suit ‘cause it felt right. Of course they didn’t make Alfred wear a tux, though. He wasn’t _on_ the Commission or anything; he just helped out a lot!

But he was totally right; the folks on the Commission DIDN’T believe the week he’d had—it was a pretty fantastic one for crime-stopping! Which, unfortunately, meant it was also a week for crime-happening. 

Nothing a hero like him couldn’t handle! He told them about all the butt he’d kicked and they nodded and smiled along. 

“—And there was this jewel heist that went down, right? Definitely the work of a couple supervillains. Both of ‘em got away, but HERE’S THE THING, okay? One left a note—turns out they heard I was coming and booked it outta there. Didn’t take anything! The other one took some stuff? But they dropped it? Not sure if it was on purpose, but I almost got ‘em. They just _barely_ got away.

“And then there was this villain dude down by the Farmers’ Market who was being a real jerk, right? Totally looking for trouble— _well_ , they all are, aren’t they?—but yeah not sure what his problem was. We got him outta there, though. A little collateral damage there.” 

Alfred took a sec to catch his breath so the Commissioner taking the minutes could catch up. 

“... But there was one thing that happened this week that was… super weird? Okay. So. I was at my house, right? And all of a sudden there’s someone knocking on my window. Super fast—they’re obviously in trouble. I hurry up and let ‘em in and it’s this… this _guy_. And he had these _eyes_ … Anyway. He was being chased by supervillains sent by the High Council. The ENTIRE HIGH COUNCIL had it out for him. I stopped the villains, but when I came back… He was gone…? What do you think that _means_?” 

The head of the Commission nodded, tracing a finger around the lip of a coffee mug, contemplative. “That _is_ interesting. Excellent work with everything, Captain Jones… And you’re certain it was The High Council of Supervillainy who had sent these villains?” 

“No doubt about it, man. The dudes told the police that themselves—orders straight from the Executive, they claim. They said they didn’t know anything else about our guy; they were just doing the Council’s bidding.” 

The Head Commissioner sat back in his seat, lining up his fingertips in front of himself. “How intriguing. Few provoke such ire from the Council as to earn the specific attention of the Executive.” The Head paused, thinking over _why that might be_ right along with Alfred and the others. “We will look into it,” he decided. 

“I mean—” one of the other Commissioners chimed in— “if he makes the Council so mad, maybe what we should be looking into is giving the guy a medal.”

* * *

Kiku sat in his office, skimming his students’ reports on the articles they’d been given. It wasn’t the easiest to balance it all—pursuing his PhD in Super Studies, teaching classes of undergraduates as part of his program, and then there was the matter of his… _other_ … line of work. 

But balance it all he did. 

Kiku set aside his pen as his office hours drew to a quiet close. 

Time was always of the essence in Kiku’s balancing. He nodded to his colleagues as he maneuvered through the hallways of his department’s building. It was good for them to remember seeing him, since timing—after all—was everything. 

He stepped out into a cloudy afternoon and masses of college students passing between classes. He blended with them all seamlessly as he focused on stealth; every single eye would glaze over him. He was nothing but a blindspot in their periphery. 

The High Council had their tower, but their tendrils extended everywhere in the city, perhaps nowhere more prominently than in the Office of Finance at the university, which was responsible for determining tuition and fees for the academic year, (mis)managing payments, as well as cancelling the scholarships of under-performing students should they earn one too many B’s on their final report card. 

Kiku took the route of the parking lots behind the buildings, where there were no security cameras to be found lest the university actually have to deal with processing hit-and-run car damage reports. There, unseen, the transformation from graduate student to supervillain was simple. 

As was stepping into the Finance building through a seldom-used side door. 

The records collected dust, unused with the advent of digital archives. This was highly unlikely to erase anything, but it wasn’t about that. It wasn’t even about the villains who worked above him in the office. 

It was about the message it would send straight to the High Council. 

A message straight to the Council that their influence did not go unnoticed, and that every last facet of their venomous organization would soon be wiped from the city. 

Kiku removed himself from the archives. Tucking his mask back into his bag and readjusting the collar of his button-up back over the black gear, he breathed deeply in the air of the cloudy day. 

Behind him, the Finance Office went up in smoke. 

Kiku didn’t bother to look back. After all, the firefighters would relay the message he’d left to the world, and Kiku had an afternoon lecture to get to. 

* * *

Vasch reorganized the cheeses on his booth as Lily beamed up at Ivan Braginsky, another superneutral with a booth at the Farmers’ Market. The two had made arrangements to trade some of Lily’s sunflowers for a lovely pink knit scarf Ivan had made. 

Naturally, just outside of the boundaries of the Farmers’ Market, some asshole supervillain had decided he wanted to make plans for the destruction of public property and some asshole superhero had decided he wanted to stop the villain, but not the destruction. Vasch kept an eye on the duo as Ivan and Lily discussed flowers. Business continued as usual within the confines of the Market, but the duo was too close for his comfort. 

Vasch pointedly put his back to the nonsense, refusing to acknowledge it even as he ground his teeth. Ivan’s boyfriend Yao leaned against the mountain of a man. Yao may be a supervillain, but at least _he_ didn’t cause trouble around here. 

At the first resounding, crashing crunch of a booth in the Market, Vasch clenched both fists. Yao’s eyes drifted over to him, a question. Vasch shook his head. 

Of course, though, the first crash was followed by many _more_. These couldn’t be ignored. Vasch whipped around as Lily gasped. 

An entire booth was airborne in a shock wave courtesy of one of the supers. And it was headed straight for all of them. 

Vasch sucked in a breath, leaping for his little sister, shoving her out of the way, bracing himself— 

—But no crash came. 

Vasch chanced a glance up, finding the wayward booth suspended midair in a ghostly purple hue. He released his breath. Ivan had stopped the booth in its tracks above Lily’s flowers with a stern look. With another look to the side, the booth floated over to find a gentle resting place a ways away. 

Telekinesis was a hell of a power, and lots of people were happy Ivan’s was used for neither good nor evil, but mostly for his knitting. 

Civilian police arrived on the scene to assist the superhero. The four watched the villain race past, pursued by many hero-aligned individuals. Ivan and Yao shared a sweet smile. “Just like we met!” Ivan said. 

“But _I_ stopped to say hello,” Yao pointed out. The four of them watched the villain get tackled to the ground. Yao winced. “But I guess I did have more of a headstart than that one did.” 

The police clapped power-suppressing handcuffs on the villain’s wrists. The hero applauded their work, then waved to catch a ride back with one of the officers.

Meanwhile, the people of the Farmers’ Market around Vasch began the lengthy process of picking up the mess the hero and the villain had made together. Lily rubbed at her arm, bending to pick up a bundle of sunflowers that had spilled across the ground in the chaos. Vasch watched her delicately touch the place where petals had fallen off before using her powers to regrow them like she was healing a wound. 

He clenched his fists. “Alright. That’s _it_.” 

* * *

Kiku stood before a classroom of students, in charge of a section supplementary to their primary lecture on the study of supers. Speaking to lecture halls was the privilege of a _professor_ , not a graduate student. 

Kiku’s students were all adults, but barely. There were at least some who listened as he recapped the material they were supposed to have learned. But lecture hall of his own or not, Kiku was lighter than air as he highlighted key concepts for them on the blackboard, his few attentive listeners racing to scribble it down. Their current material mirrored Kiku’s own research toward his doctoral thesis and Kiku could not have been more in his element, or more in power because of it. 

The sirens outside had faded to nothing. Kiku swiped a heavy underline beneath one of the main theories, chalk raining down like ash. 

When he turned back to his students, one of them had a hand raised. Kiku gestured to him. 

“Yeah, all this stuff you’re saying is about weaknesses, right? But don’t all supers have at least one?” Kiku internalized his sigh as best he could, trying to figure out where to correct him first when the student continued: “But what about Captain Jones? Does that guy even have a weakness?” 

That gave Kiku a certain pause, blue eyes and warm arms flashing through his mind. He pushed his shoulders back. 

“Excellent question, Mr. Smith. Of course, ‘ _weakness_ ’ as you describe it is a rather outdated notion, which you would know if you’d done the reading for this class period.” That got a couple laughs out of the class, including the student himself, guilty as charged, “But generally ‘weakness’ is used to refer to shortcomings of a power, negative side-effects, or even blind-spots where powers may fail to work at all under certain conditions or special cases, _especially_ if the super is unaware of the shortcoming in a way that can lead to hindrance…” Kiku played with the thought of Captain Jones between his teeth, “But as for _every_ super: what’s important to remember is that they are human. No matter how enhanced.” 

* * *

Francis watched the sunlight play off the thin strip of wine at the bottom of his glass. On the sofa in front of him, the couple paying for his services was a few octaves short of a screaming match. They’d known what they were paying for when they’d enlisted the sight of someone who had the ability to tell them if they were—or, in their case, were not—romantic soulmates. 

The both of them glowed golden, this was true, but not for each other. 

Individuals, those who had a glow at all, shone more brightly the closer they were to a soulmate. Truly, there was nothing more brilliant than people who had found one another in this world. 

The two lovers continued their spat, a tiresome back-and-forth. Francis finished his wine and set the glass aside. 

“ _Oui_ , life is strange, isn’t it? Why don’t we continue our discussion outside, no? Yes, this way, thank you, goodbye.” 

Francis shut the door behind them and took a second to breathe in the silence they’d left him with. He considered more wine. Instead, he wandered to his phone. 

The usual message was relayed by a man on the other end, “Ah! Yes, hello! It’s Francis again. Francis Bonnefoy. May I speak with—No, I am fully aware of your policy, but— _Yes_ , but it would not take long—Look, I—Yes—What would you say to a free reading? If you would simply pass along my call, I can offer information about your soulmate, completely free of charge.” The contemplative silence _did_ bring a smile to Francis’ face. There was little in the world coveted so much as the promise of a soulmate. A few more rushed words from the man on the other end and Francis was listening to the robotic voice informing of his call being transferred. 

No, few thought of anything as more valuable than a soulmate; it was why Francis’ clientele paid so much for the tiniest amount of information on theirs. Of course, that sort of knowledge was a burden in and of itself. That knowledge could break people. 

There was a click as it was picked up. “Hello?” 

An affectionate spiral of warmth curled around Francis’ heart at the voice as he circled around his apartment. The mirror in the hallway reflected that knowledge back to Francis—that he had not even the slightest trace of that glow. He never had. 

“ _Bonjour, mon coeur._ How are you?” 

Arthur was quiet for some time on the other end. “What do you want, frog?”

Francis laughed into his apartment, wandering with a skip to his step and pouring himself that extra glass of wine. He left the mirror behind him; his lack of a glow meant only that he and Arthur matched in that respect. 

“To talk with you, if you’re alright with that.” 

Arthur scoffed. 

Francis grinned to himself. “Did you get my flowers, dear?” 

“‘From the hero who put you here?’ Classy.”

Francis hummed into his cup. “Can’t have you forget, dear.”

“Believe me, I haven’t.” 

He was too cute. “Alfred made the newspaper again.” 

He could imagine Arthur bobbing his head, “Good for him. What about?” 

“Oh, his usual hero work. You know the press loves him. I did such a good job with him, you know.”

“ _You_ did?” Arthur was incredulous. 

“Well he had to get his heroics from someone, no?”

“He didn’t get that from me, to be sure, but you really think he got it from _you_?” 

“But of course! You must see the flair he brings to his work!” 

“Flair is better associated with proper _villains_ , love,” Arthur chuckled, tripping over the accidental term of affection that had slipped past his silly act of grumpiness. 

“Sure. But it’s not at all associated with you.” Francis kicked his feet up, swirling his wine as Arthur sputtered in indigence. “Ah, _mon cher_ , I’ve almost started to miss having you around here,” he joked. 

Arthur was quiet again. He lowered his voice. “Francis,” he said, “Darling. You’ve called a lot lately; wouldn’t you rather talk in person? If you would—I don’t know—come to the prison, offer a few choice guards information on their soulmates, we could walk out together.” Francis’ smile grew. “If I was out of here, I could… Get some rose petals. Some wine. I mean, we have the house to ourselves now, so… _Well_ …” Oh, so he was trying to be _charming_ now. Francis’ heart grew three sizes. “What do you say, love?” 

Francis snorted and hung up the phone. 

* * *

The doorbell buzzed and Gilbert hopped over his couch to get the door for Matthew and his dog. Gilbert threw open the door and was greeted by a GLORIOUS sight. Matthew had said it was a big fluffy dog, but Gilbert had underestimated the dog’s ability to be SO big and SO fluffy. “Matthew!” Gilbert gasped, falling to his knees, “THIS IS NOT A DOG. THIS IS A POLAR BEAR.” 

Matthew laughed lightly. “His name’s Kumajiro.” 

“A BEAUTIFUL NAME FOR A BEAUTIFUL BOY,” Gilbert told the dog as he licked his face. 

Matthew stepped inside. From the kitchen, there was the sort of _fwoomp_ you never want to hear the contents of your stove make. The Office for Commendations sent another envelope via burst of flames.

Gilbert squinted at it as he picked it up, finding it surprisingly light. He held it up to the light. “Matthew? There’s nothing in here?” 

Matthew drew closer to his partner in crime, inspecting it too. “That’s weird. Maybe they made a mistake? Last time they just sent a card.” 

“Maybe they finally started sending anthrax.” 

“That’s probably more of a _Reprimands_ thing to do, not Commendations.” 

Gilbert shrugged and peeled the envelope open. 

“Good afternoon!” said the card. Both of them jumped at the disembodied voice, Gilbert promptly dropping it with a gasp, but the envelope kept talking. Matthew’s dog sniffed at it. “I’m with the Office for Commendations under the High Council of Supervillainy. And, uh. Guys, I gotta be honest with you, we’re not quite sure what to _do_ with you two here. Like, your rampage thing? It was okay! Nobody’s denying that. It caused quite a bit of collateral damage and the motorcycle really was a nice touch.” 

Gilbert and Matthew looked at each other, then back down to the envelope on the floor.

“But it just didn’t _feel_ like ‘villainy,’ you know? It looked a lot more like the work of amateurs, petty criminals, run-of-the-mill delinquents—just with the added twist that your motorcycle flies. Which is cool and all. But villainy is an _art_ , guys. And the High Council funds _villainy_ , not criminals. (The fact that villainy is technically a crime and that by extension villains are criminals notwithstanding.) So yeah. We agreed not to send you a commendation OR to Reprimands, because—like I said—it was _fine_ , I guess. Just step it up next time, alright? Thanks! Have an awful day!” 

“Fuck you!” Gilbert told the envelope on the floor. “That bike was awesome! ‘Petty criminals.’ That bike took WEEKS!” Gilbert kicked the envelope, which did not defend itself. 

Matthew put a hand on Gilbert’s shoulder and his head snapped up to look at him. “Gil, it’s okay. At least they’re not sending us to Reprimands, right?” 

Gilbert gritted his teeth. “You’re right. You’re right. We’ll bounce back. We’ll show them. I’ll—I’ll go bigger this time. I’ll make a _new_ motorcycle, an even better, more awesome one! One that’ll be unstoppable! We’ll up the ante and—and—” 

“—Gil,” Matthew stopped him, gentle. His hand was still on Gilbert’s shoulder. “I meant, it doesn’t matter what they think. The bike was fantastic. You worked super hard on it and it showed. You have every right to be proud of your accomplishments. Commendations doesn’t know what they’re talking about; they had to call in a _helicopter_ to stop us. That’s not something they do for ‘petty criminals.’” Matthew shrugged and smiled, making both look so easy, “Besides, that was the most fun I’d had in a long time. It was worth it.” 

Gilbert swallowed hard and looked away from him, face burning. Matthew kept watching him, making sure all that sunk in, and Gilbert REALLY wished he wouldn’t because it wasn’t exactly like he got that often. Suddenly, the hand on his shoulder felt too hot. He coughed. “Thanks, Birdie.” 

Then, they were on Gilbert’s couch, Matthew’s great and glorious dog sprawled at their feet, and Gilbert was still too warm, but at least the beer in his hand was cold. 

He was talking, because that’s what he did best and because what the fuck else was he supposed to do? He was just talking—about their next move, about how all they had to do was avoid what the Council hadn’t liked about last time, and he couldn’t really shut up because if he did Matthew’s eyes would seek his out. And say what you want about Matthew’s powers versus his brother’s powers, but Matthew had _definitely_ gotten the better genes when it came to those eyes. Lots of supers had funny-colored eyes. Gilbert had noticed pretty early on that Matthew’s were purple, but he hadn’t SEEN them—really seen them—until the two of them were floating together midair, Matthew holding him up like it was nothing, those eyes deep and violet and concerned and caring and all sorts of shit like that. Gilbert had lost his bike, just about lost his life, but there was Matthew. And now there was this. And now they were sitting on Gilbert’s couch. And Gilbert couldn’t shut up or it would all come flooding back. 

Matthew seemed nonplussed at the rambling, which was a fantastic trait for a person who’d agreed to hang around Gilbert for any length of time.

“They said something I thought was interesting,” Matthew spoke up, finally bringing him around to a halt. “They said villainy was an art?” 

“Yeah!" Gilbert cleared his throat, "Yeah, of course it is.” 

Matthew watched the condensation on his bottle. “How do you mean?” 

“Well, art is just… something more. Like, a way to get your point across, but _more_.” Gilbert had thought it was a rather eloquent way to put it, but Matthew blinked. 

“So… how is your villainy… more?” 

“Because _my_ villainy is awesome.”

Matthew shifted, clearly discontent. “Well, I see that. But I just…” he shrugged a shoulder, seeming almost reluctant to say it, “I’ve never thought of my villainy like that.”

“How DO you think of your villainy then?” 

“I… I don’t want this to come out wrong but I… For me… I don’t think it’s ever been… that deep…?” 

Gilbert tilted his head. “Every villain has a spark. Has a _reason_ , a _motivation_ that drives them. If it’s not a crime of passion—what’s the point, you know?”

Matthew shifted. “What if I… don’t have one? A ‘spark.’ Some driving motivation.” 

Gilbert wasn’t buying it. “Well, what about your brother?” 

Matthew stared at his bottle. “What about him?”

“Basically everyone thinks he’s a dreamboat sex symbol avenger hero.” 

“Okay.” 

“And he’s got super cool powers.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Plus he keeps getting the newspaper pages ahead of us.” 

“Yep.” 

“Mattie.” 

“Gilbert.” 

“Are you really going to make me ask you ‘how does that make you feel?’”

Matthew shrugged. “What can I say? He’s all that and everyone knows it.”

“Is he though? He’s all that, and what? You’re not?” 

“I didn’t say that. But he’s not the one who has to work fulltime at Target.”

“ _Why_? Why doesn’t he have to struggle like you do?” 

Matthew looked away. “That’s always how it’s been. He’s the louder one. He’s always known what he wants and he… goes for it, I guess. It’s annoying. But it’s not like he’s a bad guy for it.” 

“He doesn’t have to be a ‘bad guy’ for him to piss you the hell off. You wanna know why? Because you’re a fucking supervillain. And because you’ve worked for your chance in the limelight. How about I help you start getting what _you_ want? What if he had to feel the way you do everyday? Now wouldn’t _that_ be art?” 

Matthew was still pretending to be interested in the wall, but he was biting the inside of his cheek. 

“How about this: next time we go out, forget everything the Council wants from us. Let’s stick it to your ass of a brother. We’ll find your spark in this business, Birdie, I promise you that.”


	8. A Case of Very Serious Adulting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sometimes minding your own business_
> 
> _Is a superpower in and of itself_

Vasch stood at the podium in front of the City Council, all the Farmers’ Market regulars sitting in the seats for the community members. Vasch made sure the few seats not filled by people who had booths had a Neutral in them. 

The City Council seated before him was a wonderful microcosm of how ridiculous the city itself was. There were seven of them. Two were civilians. Two half-tried to conceal that they were supervillains to meet the requirements of their oaths, the scandal of their affiliations an open secret. The rest were superheroes and by virtue of that could mostly get away with being open about it, despite their oaths. 

But that wasn’t enough for the supers. It was never enough. The High Council of Supervillainy was _naturally_ pretty effective in conducting whatever business it wanted without ever giving a thought to the City Council—city policies and politics not exactly being their style. It was the Great Commission of Heroes that _naturally_ made a pest of themselves in this arena, representatives from the Commission making up some convoluted _separate_ council dedicated to ‘the propagation of goodness and justice’ in the city. 

So, in other words, not a soul to give a shit about the Neutrals. 

_That_ was the mess Vasch stood in front of. 

“Let me get this straight,” a hero councilmember talked down to him, “You’re calling for the… the _Farmers’ Market_ to be made grounds under control of the Neutral Alliance?” 

“Yes, for the Farmers Market to officially be a Neutral space, the neutrality of which would be enforced by the Neutral Alliance.” 

“Are you saying our law enforcement and, oh, I don’t know, superheroes everywhere aren’t capable of preserving the peace at… The Farmers’ Market?” chortled a member of the Commission from his tall padded seat adjacent to where the City Council sat. 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ve been standing up here for twenty minutes saying that.”

“And what interest would the Neutral Alliance have in the city’s Farmers’ Market?” 

Vasch leaned close to the microphone, “Our own.” 

One of the civilian council members shrugged a shoulder at the others. “Look, it’s not like it’s an unreasonable request.” 

* * *

Gilbert hurriedly scribbled notes on the rough schematic in front of him. The whole thing was barely comprehensible, but he knew he had to get this down. His little yellow bird, Gilbird, watched him with his head tilted, fucking adorable as always. Gilbird cheeped as Gilbert went for a protractor. 

“I know, I know! These plans are just in case, though!” Gilbert assured his bird. 

Gilbird twittered down at him. 

“Look, I’ll work on the paint gun in a second! I needed to get this idea out of my head… Mattie and I were talking and he said this thing and it really got me thinking… What if… ANYWAY, it’s just an idea! A creator has to create!”

Gilbird preened at a wing. 

Gilbert reached to pet his precious tiny head with one finger. “I knew you’d understand, buddy.” 

On the other side of the desk, Gilbert’s phone went off. He dove for it, accidentally smacking it off the edge in his haste, and then hurtling to the ground after it—managing to send a couple loose papers off the desk along with him. From the floor, Gilbert answered the phone. 

“Hey, Mattie, how’s it goin’?”

On the other end, there was the type of long sigh response you only get after someone’s had a long ass day at work. Gilbert’s heart went out to him, really. Actually, it seemed like his heart was going slightly _too_ far out to Matthew, making like it was trying to push itself out of his chest. Gilbert put his hand to his chest, rubbing at it like that’d make it cut it out. “It’s going,” Matthew answered. “I need a break from all this. Are we still on for tonight?” 

Gilbert’s heart leaped underneath his hand. Damn, was it something he fucking _ate_? “Hell yeah we are! I have the finishing touches to put on this paint gun, but then we’re going to put the best graffiti this city has ever seen all over town. _Fuck_ the Council and their shit about ‘petty crime’—this isn’t for them, we’ll get them something real nice soon enough—this is for you, Birdie.” 

There was quiet on the other end a beat. Then, “Let’s do it.” 

* * *

Kiku rushed out of his office, late for his department’s weekly colloquium on recent research. His grading was only partially done because he’d put so much focus on his _own_ studies recently. He would most certainly be staying late again. 

With his laptop bag slung across his shoulder, all his papers and books scooped haphazardly into his arms, an apple in his mouth because he hadn’t had the time to grab lunch, Kiku tumbled into the small room of professors and other graduate students, keeping his eyes on his shoes and claiming his usual place in the back corner. His mind stretched for what today’s presentation was supposed to be on—research on superpowers and recessive genes? No, that was next week’s. _Right_ , today was supposed to be the guest super, despite the fact that the department couldn’t figure out who to get and asked every super they could get a line to. 

Kiku quietly arranged his things as he settled in his seat, wondering who they’d actually gotten to speak as he was finally able to take the first bite of his apple— 

—Kiku’s eyes connected with blue from across the room. 

Ah. 

Fuck. 

Captain Jones was staring straight at him, eyes wide with recognition. Kiku threw a quick glance over his shoulder, gauging the distance to the door, but he was already sitting. He couldn’t simply get up and leave; that would only raise _more_ questions Kiku couldn’t answer. 

Kicking himself for not paying attention to the department email, Kiku slumped in his seat, resolved to stay for the presentation.

What Captain Jones’ presentation ended up being was a bland back-and-forth question and answer session, Jones having spent no time preparing anything to say, clearly used to interviews. Some of the graduate students were sinking in their seats, not fond of the audience participation any more than Kiku was. He could almost excuse himself from the room with that alone… _except_ for the tiny detail that Captain Jones spent the majority of his time looking directly at him. It was practically karma that his was the singular face in this room Jones had met under memorable circumstances. 

Kiku’s stomach pulled him to flee with every passing tick of the clock. 

Finally, Jones quit his incessant pacing and wide gesturing and rooted himself to one point at the center of the room. “So, uh, this was fun! Thank you all for coming; I’m down to take pictures if any of you want one—”

Kiku’s items were in his bag before Jones had gotten out the ‘thank you,’ and then he was out the door, still clutching three books and a file folder to his chest. His office was upstairs. If he could only retreat there and continue with his grading, the problem in the other room would be resolved as Jones inevitably got hounded by requests for selfies. 

He pressed the button for the elevator, the wait painful. 

“Hey, ‘scuse me!” 

Kiku nearly leaped out of his skin, seeing the large blond headed right for him. Kiku pretended he hadn’t heard, or that he assumed Jones wasn’t speaking to him, made a show of checking his phone for the time, and then sped off around the corner. 

“Hey, wait!” Kiku heard him call, followed by the sound of sneakers jogging on the hallway tile.

_Damn_ it. He turned another random corner, putting effort into concealing himself—too late. Jones had seen him round the corner, and he was focused on Kiku. It wouldn’t be so easy to shake him. He took a breath. 

Alfred F. Jones turned the corner that he’d watched his mysterious figure disappear around… and found nothing. Figuring he must have kept going down the hallway, Alfred continued forward, peeking into different offices as he went. 

Near the ceiling, bracing his legs, arm, and shoulder against the walls of the narrow hallway—still clutching to his books—Kiku Honda released the breath he’d been holding. He waited until the superhero’s footsteps receded before slowly lowering himself back to the ground. Quietly, quietly, he slid back to the main hallway, peering around the corner before stepping fully out. The tension released, Kiku no longer bothering with his powers. His office was nothing but an elevator ride away. He pressed the button. 

“Oh, hey! I was hoping I’d catch you!” 

The Captain, who had doubled back, couldn’t believe his luck; he’d thought he’d lost him! Of course, Kiku Honda, too, had thought he’d lost him, which he let Alfred Jones know by gasping quite loudly. “Sorry! Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that… Uh.” Horrified, Kiku watched Captain Jones blush and rub at his neck, “I never got your name before.”

Kiku gaped at him, wide-eyed and speechless. Alfred interpreted this as the usual starstruck attitude people got around him, or maybe leftover memories of that fateful evening they’d met. 

“Also, uh, wanted to make sure you’re okay? Y’know, having had the Council after you and everything. That’s a lot, man.”

Getting a grip on himself, Kiku cleared his throat, then nodded too quickly. “Yes, yes. Right. Kiku. I’m Kiku. And I’m doing fine, thank you.” 

The Captain’s face lit up like a lightbulb. “Kiku! Kiku. Rock on, man. Um. Glad you’re good! That’s real good news. Those guys won’t be bothering you anymore; that’s for sure. The henchmen anyway. Um. If the Council ever tries anything, though, you can always call.” 

Kiku silently willed the elevator to come faster. “Thank you, I appreciate that.” 

“Yeah, no problem! All part of the job.” He coughed. "So, Kiku. What are you studying?” 

Kiku looked around at the halls of the Super Studies department, which did not allow any guests to go far without reminding them of precisely where they were and what those in the department studied. “I’m a graduate student in the university’s Super Studies program.” 

“Right! Right of course. That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. I bet that keeps you super busy. Heh. _Super_ busy.” 

Kiku smiled sweet as venom.

The elevator doors opened, the superhero internally cursing the universe’s timing and the supervillain praising it. Kiku stepped inside. “It was nice seeing you again. Thank you for your presentation,” Kiku politely excused. Alfred shifted back and forth on his feet, the both of them acutely aware that their time together was drawing to an abrupt close.

“Actually! Uh. If you’re not too busy of course, I was kind of wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime maybe?” 

Kiku blinked, mind not moving fast enough for the elevator doors. He caught the doors before they closed. “‘Hang out’…?”

Jones smiled sheepishly. “Grab a coffee maybe? Talk?” 

Bewildered, needing more data, Kiku nodded the hero into the elevator with him. There was no way he was reading this correctly… 

“I mean, definitely don’t feel obligated or anything—”

“—No, no, it’s not that. It’s _why_?” 

Jones sputtered and blushed and settled on telling Kiku, “Why not?” 

Kiku Honda had plenty of ‘why not’s, not that he could let the hero onto any of those without being promptly arrested. But Kiku also hesitated, allowing the Captain to walk alongside him to his office. Jones watched him expectantly, patiently as he unlocked the door. 

Kiku studied supers, and was seeking a PhD for doing so. Jones wasn’t at his department’s colloquium by accident, or for nothing. Jones was there because there was perhaps no super in the city more… relevant. The entire city had its eye on the Captain—already a star, a quickly rising legend. 

Additionally, it was worth noting, there was perhaps no super in the city certain villains feared more. 

His student’s question echoed in his mind: _what about Captain Jones? Does HE have a weakness?_

The Captain looked around his newfound friend’s office, heart soaring as he pointed to Kiku’s small rainbow pride flag in his pencil holder, the words ‘SUPER GAY’ printed in bold white letters across it. “Me too,” he laughed, throwing him an excitable grin, “Ha, well, super bi, but y’know.” 

“Yes, I got it from the department’s LGBTQ group.” 

“That’s wicked cool, dude.” The earnesty in his voice stole a small, fleeting smile from the graduate student. 

Kiku sized up Captain Jones, a man with incredible abilities: flight, strength, and—as the media would constantly claim—charm. Kiku was a researcher; any information on Jones would have his work surging to headlines. Kiku was an enemy of the High Council; proximity to the hero—while an undeniable risk—may again be a matter of personal security. The High Council would be incredibly interested in finding their insurgent’s name, face, and whereabouts; a cafe with Captain Jones would be the last place their people would search. Kiku was a man who made the study of weaknesses his career path; the idea that _the_ Captain Jones may have one himself? It would be power in and of itself. 

What a fascinating situation he’d gotten himself into. Given his circumstances, he would be a fool to spend even a second longer so close to a hero of Jones’ magnitude, and likewise he would be a fool to let such an opportunity pass him by. 

So Kiku considered a compromise. He would accept Jones’ offer to ‘hang out.’ He would assuage any suspicion the Captain may have, for a period of time he would be beyond the Council’s radar, and for a period of time he would be face-to-face with his most publicly interesting research subject. 

Besides, Kiku reminded himself as he gave Jones a smile, it would only be once. 

* * *

Matthew felt absolutely ridiculous, but in a good way. It was the sort of ridiculous you had to grow back into, that his ‘adult’ brain rang the ‘childish’ alarm for. But it wasn’t like he was here in this dank, moldy alleyway to be mature. He stood with a long, clunky device in his hands, not even in his typical villain get-up. He and Gilbert were in all black, their look completed by a couple of Gilbert’s bandannas tied around the lower halves of their faces. Matthew’s bandanna was a purple and black plaid, likely snagged from the nearest dollar store. Gilbert’s stretched a skeleton’s grin from ear to ear. 

Gilbert shoved three cans of spray paint into the top of the paint gun which resembled a toy gun that eleven-year-olds would find supremely cool. The alley was soaked in shadows save for the streetlights leaking in from the street, splashing off the wet pavement that didn’t see enough sunlight to evaporate properly. 

They were supervillains—or teenage idiots—completely anonymous in the dark of the night. 

Matthew’s scruples yanked at his ear some more, still ready to drag him out of the alley entirely. He had no issue at all defacing some random brick wall. He wasn’t scared of being stopped by anyone—he was way too familiar with _that_ process. It was just that… He’d never done this exact sort of thing.

It was never personal. He’d definitely never made it about his brother. Matthew could nearly imagine his face—some stupid comment over dinner, some pitying, patronizing look. 

Matthew gripped Gilbert’s invention tighter in his hands.

Maybe it’d been a longer day at work than usual—maybe it was the way Gilbert held his chin so high, with so much assurance of how exactly he’d make this world bend—but Matthew’s heart was thudding with something between excitement and being royally pissed off.

“How’re you feeling, Birdie?” Gilbert asked him behind that skeleton’s smile, so pale he glowed in the low light. Matthew’s racing heart fumbled a beat. 

Mattie hefted the awkward weight of the spray gun up onto a shoulder. “I’m feeling great.”

Gilbert barked out a laugh and followed his lead raising his own sprayer. Matthew beat him to the punch. He yanked back on the trigger, unleashing a torrent of color at the side of his partner in crime. 

There was no way these things could be used for actual art. They worked perfectly for spraying a thick stream of paint at the mildew-coated bricks, though, and that was all Matthew needed. The alley filled quickly with chemicals they almost certainly shouldn’t have been breathing, but they were too busy laughing over the sharp hiss of the extra-pressurized paint to care. 

There wasn’t a thing ‘villain’ or ‘adult’ about it as Matthew and Gilbert took turns wheezing over unfunny lines freshly plastered on an out-of-sight wall. ‘Hero? More like Her-NO!’ read tall, wobbling letters. ‘Captain Jones? How about CRAPtain Jones!’ 

Gilbert snorted, an arm across Matthew’s shoulders. Matthew was breathless. 

Then, at the end of the alley, there was the unmistakable siren flash and chirp of a cop car pulling up to put a halt to fun. 

They ran, Gilbert’s boots and Matthew’s sneakers smacking against wet asphalt as a lone officer’s voice boomed incoherently off the alley walls after them. Their ‘getaway vehicle’—Matthew’s moped—waited patiently for them right where they’d left it at the end of the alley. Gilbert beat him to it and swung his leg over it. With a breathy laugh, Matthew leaped up onto the seat behind him. “Why do you get to drive?” 

“My idea!” Gilbert grinned back at him. 

“ _My_ moped!”

“You can fly! That automatically makes me better at the ‘running away’ part; just hold the sprayers!” 

Gilbert gunned it, whipping the scooter out onto the road. Matthew clutched tight to him, a delirious laugh finding its way out of his lungs as Gilbert pushed the moped as fast as it could go—weaving through traffic. The cars and city lights blurred around the two of them, an oil painting. Matthew pressed his forehead to Gilbert’s back. 

* * *

Gilbert tried to blame the warmth on the leather jacket and pants as he pulled Mattie’s moped into the Sonic on the opposite side of town. It was only the high of a job and an escape well-done. 

Matthew’s arms disappeared from his waist, the weight of him against his back following. It felt like something had been taken off one side of a scale—like something was off-balance without him there. 

Gilbert kicked himself for that one, hastily sweeping the thought under a rug. 

“So anyway I think we’re entitled to some slushies for that.”

Matthew smiled with his whole face, the neon and fluorescence shining off of him. “For outrunning the cops?” 

“For _excellence_ in the age-old art of supervillainy.” Gilbert pressed the button to order. 

Matthew got off the scooter and leaned back against the menu. There was something to be said, Gilbert thought, about two exceptionally shady characters such as themselves asking for fruit slushies.

It occurred to Gilbert after he saw their drinks coming that he should maybe take off his dark goggles and bandanna. The carhop looked a little too tired to give a shit and gave him his change as Matthew squawked in the background at Gilbert paying for the both of them. Matthew let it go after Gilbert handed him his cherry icee. 

The bandanna and goggles Gilbert had loaned him hung around Matthew’s neck, resting on the collar of his black hoodie. Matthew’s dark jeans were ripped at the knees. Gilbert decided it was time to focus on his slushie. 

When he looked back up, Matthew was watching him with a small smile.

Gilbert coughed. “So how did it feel, then? Sticking it to your brother? Have we gotten you your villainous spark?”

Matthew’s smile faded, his eyebrows coming together as he remembered why they were there in the first place. He tapped a finger against his slushie. “I mean, it felt good.” The smile slowly returned. “It felt really good.” 

Sure. ‘Good’ was a start. They could build from ‘good.’ “Look,” Gilbert leaned back on the bike, poking his straw around the syrupy concoction in his glove, “I _totally_ get it. I remember when I was little in school; we had constant lessons on how fucking fantastic all the heroes are and how any of us could be one. And that shit just doesn’t feel right! I was sitting there the whole time thinking, really, all this about superheroes sounds lame as shit! Then I tried to weld the monkeybars together with a blowtorch I made and the principal sat me down and asked me if I ‘wanted to end up a supervillain’ and I went ‘wait that’s an OPTION?!’ And after that it was like EVERYTHING fell into its perfect, wonderful, evil place. I wanted to be the best supervillain in the world! But I HAD to find what fit for me! I had to find that spark, Matthew! It was what really set it all in motion! So what I’m saying is, be honest: do you think we’re heading in the right direction with this Captain Jones thing?” 

Matthew laughed lightly, “You _made_ a blowtorch? How old were you?”

“Fifth grade.” 

Grinning, Matthew shook his head at his shoes in wonder. “You know my brother knew around that early too? Probably younger, since the hero thing is pushed so much.” Matthew took a long sip of his drink. “Of course, then there were a bunch of eyes on me wondering what _I_ was going to do with my powers; since my brother had it all figured out—why didn’t I, right?” 

Gilbert slurped at his slushie. “Fuck that.” 

“I mean, after a while most people sort of assumed I’d just be a superpowered civilian? The Neutral Alliance wasn’t around back then, so people couldn’t think that either.” He chewed his cheek a moment. “It wasn’t like anyone ever meant anything by it, but it was always like they assumed ‘civilian’ because they knew I’d never measure up to what my brother was doing.” He lifted his head. “So... I think the answer to your question is _yes_ , then. I think this is exactly the right direction.” 

Gilbert was averagely sure this was the first time a guy with cherry syrup on his mouth had ever given him chills. He was all fucking about it, though. “We’ll show them how wrong they were for underestimating you, Mattie.” 

Matthew shrugged. “I’m not my brother. But I’m something.” 

Gilbert clapped him on the shoulder, “HELL YEAH YOU’RE SOMETHING, BIRDIE. You’re fucking brilliant, is what you are. And we are going to do _so_ many awesome things together.”

Matthew’s smile was gentle. “You know, I think the Gilbert who tried to weld the monkeybars would be pretty excited to know you’re his future.” 

Gilbert nodded sagely. “I _have_ gotten hot,” he agreed, “but also at that age I was still praying I had undiscovered superpowers, so…” he gestured vaguely with his slushie.

Matthew shook his head. “Sometimes I forget you don’t have powers.” 

“Believe me, Birdie: working with me? The Council sure as hell won’t let you forget.” 

Matthew looked over at him, “Well…” he said, “Fuck that.” 

It stole a grin from him, the language almost sounding wrong in his mouth, but at the same time SO RIGHT. “Just you wait, Birdie. Soon the both of our names will be printed in bold on the front page of all the papers.” 

“I look forward to it.” 

Gilbert watched his boots for a second, the glimmer of an idea in his head and a funny feeling poking at his heart. _Should he…? He had the uber-rough schematics back at home…? They had to up the ante somehow, didn’t they?_ “Hey, Mattie? I was thinking. Have you ever considered what your brother would be like… if he didn’t have his powers?”

Matthew tilted his head, eyebrows scrunched. 

“I mean, think about it! He’s always gotten everything he’s ever wanted,” Gilbert ticked it off on his fingers, “he gets all the attention no matter what anyone else does, he sure as hell never had to get his requests for cash rejected by a committee who didn’t think he was good enough, and it’s mostly because he’s got cool powers! I, for one, am real sick of assholes thinking they’re hot shit because they’ve got an automatic leg-up on everyone else.” Gilbert waved widely, “Look at the Executive! Look at every fucking statue in the Garden of the Greats! And with that combo of powers? Your brother’s fucking Superman!” 

“He wishes he could fuck Superman.”

“Don’t we all! Anyway, my point is, if there was—hypothetically—a... ray... of some sort that could take those powers away, would he even be a fraction of what he is now? You wondered how villainy could be art? What if he had to feel like we feel every day? Now _that_ , Matthew, is art.” 

Matthew sighed, “That sounds nice… I don’t think he’s ever even considered how, ah, _large_ his shadow is—or how much it sucks to fall in it.” 

“Exactly! And we can’t do shit to get at him like he is, but _think_ of all the supervillainy we could get up to if Superman wasn’t around. The Council couldn’t pay us ENOUGH.” 

“ _God_ , if only.” 

Gilbert played with his straw, laughing along, “I know, right? If only…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take care of yourselves, folks. 
> 
> Hope you liked the update! Feel free to share your thoughts! :)


	9. Partners & Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _True courage is still believing in the good of humanity,_
> 
> _While actively working with the general public_

Kiku covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a laugh at the Captain’s comment.

It had _begun_ as expected: with small talk, and Jones inquiring about how exactly Kiku had managed to get on the Council’s bad side. Kiku had said he’d written a scathing academic article about them that they were severely unhappy with—which was true, if not the only thing he’d done. The Captain had listened with soft eyes and his cheek in his hand as Kiku laid out his case for the Council’s sloppy work, ineffectiveness, and overall presence that was detrimental and hindering—from an objective, outside point of view, of course—to even the motives of villains. A conclusion wrapped up that all, including villains, would be better off without them. 

It would seem contempt for the Council was something Kiku and the Captain had in common. At first, it struck Kiku as rather strange to have anything at all in common with the hero before him, though it made a great deal of sense. 

Of course, Jones had wanted to know more about Kiku’s studies after they’d discovered this common ground, and he’d listened as Kiku gave him the typical overview: research involving the scientific study of weakness in supers, typically involving data collection through a structured interview process. His department was always accepting new supers, he was sure to mention, who would be open to such discussions. 

Okay, Jones had said, sounds complicated, but what do you do for _fun_ , man?

Kiku had chosen to list gaming for him. 

From there, their conversation had shifted—devolved, perhaps. Because then Kiku was laughing and gushing with a hero about video games. And overall, he would admit, this wasn’t nearly as grueling a situation as he’d imagined it being. Maybe, _maybe_ he would even admit to himself that he was having fun. 

Naturally, none of this changed the fact of who the both of them were, and—enjoying himself or not—Kiku was ready to wipe his hands of this. He glanced at the time on his watch. “Ah, you must excuse me, Captain, I’m afraid I still have work to finish for tomorrow…” 

“You know, Kiku, you _can_ call me Alfred.”

Kiku smiled, just slightly. “Alfred. This has been nice, but I really must be going.”

“Yeah, man, do what you need to do. Thanks for taking the time outta your day! It was great!” 

Kiku stood to throw away his empty tea cup. 

“Oh, hey, actually!” Alfred called to him, “Since being a hero has some perks and all, I may definitely have the exclusive, early release copy of Neko Zombie Ninja III. A gift straight from the developers. If you wanna play it sometime, hit me up!” 

Kiku stopped, his back to him. “But… that game isn’t set to be released for a year…”

“I know right?! They gave it to me as thanks for saving their office space! So, like, if you’ve ever got some free time, let me know!” 

Kiku was a man who studied weaknesses. He was in a hefty amount of debt to pursue a PhD and career in the study of them. He was even paid by his university to teach about them. As such, Kiku was fully aware of his own… and that this was one of them. 

He turned back around. “ _Well_ …” 

* * *

With a massive effort, Matthew shoved the shopping carts back inside, wiping the sweat from his forehead and calling it good enough to go back into the store. “Oh, hey, Matt!” his coworker called from a busy register, “Wanna do bathrooms? We had a customer complain of a mess.”

Matthew slumped, still trying to regain his breath from outside work, but he nodded. 

Arming himself with an arsenal of cleaning tools, Matthew entered the restroom in question. He breathed a sigh of relief. Everything looked fine, but there were some paper towels that had missed the trash can. An easy fix.

Then, he opened the door to the first stall. And died a little inside. Ah. So that was the complaint. 

_How did they DO that?_ His mind whimpered. 

He looked back at his entire cart of materials, then back at the biohazardous disaster area in front of him. Shaking a little, he pulled on rubber gloves. _Where did he even start?_

* * *

Alfred plopped into his seat among the Great Commission. He scooped up the sheet of paper with the meeting’s agenda on it, vibrating with excitement as he always did sitting with all these legendary superheroes in one spot. The Head of the Commission sat at the head of the long polished wooden table, just RADIATING with coolness. Maybe one day he’d get used to pretty much every single one of his childhood heroes inviting him to things, but it sure wasn’t today.

He reviewed the bullet points on the agenda sheet, the bit he was in charge of toward the middle: updates anybody had on the mysterious super who’d gotten on the Council’s bad side. After all, Alfred _definitely_ had an update on that little topic—he’d talked to the guy! He seemed cool.

Al stared at the agenda sheet some more because that’s what people do at meetings. He focused in on his bullet point. ‘Captain Jones: Discuss mysterious super.’ 

Wait, was Kiku actually a super? Was that confirmed? Like, it was kinda presumed since he’d gotten away from a bunch of villains with powers, and hiked up the fire escape, and then still disappeared without a trace. Maybe he was just athletic or something? Just really into parkour? Were parkour and athletics things that academics were into? He guessed parkour was a type of athletics. He also guessed he shouldn’t stereotype academics. He also also guessed he could probably ask Kiku, if anybody really wanted to know, when he came over for Neko Zombie Ninja III. 

_Gosh_ Alfred couldn’t wait for that. It was going to be so GREAT! Alfred wondered if they’d play through the whole game at once together; he was only partially through it himself, being busy doing crime-fighting and city-saving lately and all. They could probably knock it out in an afternoon and evening— 

“—Captain, we’re very glad to have you with us, as always!” the Head of the Commission smiled warmly over at him. 

“Hey, thanks, man!” Alfred set down the agenda, “You know I’m always here to help!” 

Alfred then noticed that the rest of the Commission was looking over at him too. He grinned and waved, heart doing jumping jacks at all their encouraging smiles. _This is so cool this is so cool this is so cool._

“You are,” the Head agreed with the sort of sincerity that makes you feel like you’re missing something, “And we appreciate it so much.” Alfred looked around at the room of heroes, who were all still mostly watching him, some of them sharing meaningful looks between each other. “Captain,” the Head continued, “you’re an invaluable member of our team… That’s why we’ve all agreed… to make it official.” 

Alfred’s heart dropped to his stomach and back again. “W-Wait, do you mean—”

—The big fancy doors to the Commission’s meeting hall crept open, the Head gesturing those behind them inside. A whole bunch of reporters and their cameras and notepads stepped inside, pens and lenses poised at the ready. 

He looked back to the Head with wide eyes. 

“Surely this isn’t a _surprise_ , Captain. Of course we want you on the Great Commission; that’s why you’ve been invited to our meetings, isn’t it?”

“I-I-I mean? I guess? I kinda thought maybe you guys just sorta liked me? Plus I had some good intel for you all, since I’ve been doing some city-saving and stuff.” 

The Head laughed, “Still humble,” he called over to the reporters. The Head gave Alfred a nod. “Captain Jones, for your demonstrated valor, diligence, and commitment to justice, we are officially offering you a position on the Great Commission of Heroes, if you would have it.” 

“DUDE ARE YOU KIDDING? I’VE DREAMED OF THIS LIKE MY ENTIRE LIFE, OF COURSE I’LL HAVE IT!” it just kinda came out. Everyone in the room had a chuckle over it. 

“Well, then, Captain; you’re familiar with the procedure. We’ll have you take your oath, and then you’ll be one of us.” The Head extended his hand for Alfred to take. 

Alfred didn’t hesitate a second, clapping his left hand into the Head’s in a reverse-handshake. Right hand up for the swearing bit, left hand for the Head’s wicked cool power of compelling the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth. There could never be an insincere vow taken by a Commissioner; if you didn’t _really mean_ it, the words simply wouldn’t come out. Alfred already knew all the lines; he could never mean anything more. 

To protect the city? Of course!

To keep the citizens safe? Duh! 

To take on the Great Commission of putting an end to willful, malicious evildoing? Hell yeah!

To revoke association and support of all evildoing? Yep!

To do everything in his power to be a good image of a superhero? Sure thing!

The Head of the Commission patted him on the back. The whole room cheered, his fellow Commissioners laughing as they pulled concealed party poppers. The Head presented him with his very own name plate for his seat at the table. The cameras flashed. He couldn’t stop smiling if he tried. 

* * *

Bit by bit, Arthur made headway chipping away at the stone walls of the prison with a spoon from the mess hall. _Damn concrete. Why’d they have to make this so difficult?_

Nevertheless! He had made a right proper dent by now! All it would take was a little more elbow grease and he’d be outside in no time. 

The heavy step of boots echoed from the hallway, Arthur hastily pushing his pillow in front of the marred wall. “Kirkland. You’ve got a phone call.” 

Arthur whipped around to stand at attention, the spoon clutched behind his back. 

Beilschmidt looked unimpressed. He held the phone through the prison bars. Arthur took it. 

“Hello?” 

“DAD! DAD! GUESS WHAT?! I JUST GOT A POSITION ON THE COMMISSION!”

“Oh Alfred that’s _marvelous_!” Arthur gestured broadly, as though Alfred could see him. 

Beilschmidt cleared his throat and held out his hand. Arthur’s eyes flicked to his spoon hand which, indeed, was no longer behind his back. _Damn it all_. 

* * *

Matthew slumped deeper into a chair that, like the rest of Gilbert’s lab, looked and smelled slightly of burning. He’d gotten out of work, picked up Kumajiro, and come straight here. Usually it took everything in him not to immediately take a five hour nap after work, but there was something about Gil’s that gave him a second wind. 

He tossed a ball around for Kuma, smiling at the wall and Gilbert’s story about his bird. 

Gilbert had his back to him at his desk, trying to get at least a _little_ bit of work done while they talked. It didn’t seem he was being very successful in that, since he kept spinning in his chair to grin back at Matthew. 

Feet and back still aching from his shift, Matthew dragged each limb off the chair one-by-one and pulled himself to his feet. He crossed the room to take up a perch on the edge of Gilbert’s desk. “I definitely don’t get paid enough for all they have me do at that store.” 

“Believe me, I have no doubt about that; I used to work in retail. The ones who work the hardest don’t get _near_ enough credit. You don’t get near enough credit.” Gilbert coughed on a laugh, then, and gestured to the entirety of his lab, to unfinished projects, half-formed ideas. “Hell, _we_ don’t get enough credit. The Council definitely doesn’t give a shit about how much we struggle.” Gilbert sat back in his chair, stowing a pencil behind his ear before lacing his hands on his stomach, “Neither do the civilians. Neither do the heroes.” 

Matthew slouched to rest his chin in his hand. “Tell me about it,” he grumbled. The exhaustion, the soreness, the reminder of his wages washed over him in a wave. Kuma brought him the ball to throw, effectively coating his work pants in drool as the dog panted expectantly up at him. Matthew tossed the ball. 

Then he turned his attention back to the plans Gilbert was already back to poring over, the whole side of his left hand smeared with pencil lead from his writing. Matthew watched him use a compass to draw a circle of specific dimensions like it was just another letter of the alphabet. Watching him work was mesmerizing. 

Matthew’s eyes wandered up the line of Gilbert’s arm, to the slightly flexed biceps Gilbert’s sleeveless muscle shirt proudly showed off as he drew. He snapped his attention elsewhere as his heart stuttered in his chest. 

Gilbert measured out an angle from the center of the circle he’d drawn, a plan taking shape with each stroke of his pencil. Matthew could almost hear Gilbert’s voice ringing out, describing a new wicked scheme with the same confidence he’d drawn with. “Gil this is… really cool.” 

His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Yeah, I am pretty awesome,” he agreed, pretending he was at all capable of hiding red-tinged cheeks. Matthew smiled down at the desk, then over at the small stack of papers and plans at his side. He nodded to them. “May I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“I’ll do my best not to.” Matthew pulled the hefty stack onto his lap. He parsed through them one by one, chuckling at some, noting how they should try out others. 

It was comfortable there at Gilbert’s side, imagining all that they could do, the only sound between them the rustle of paper and the scratch of Gilbert’s pencil. 

Then, Matthew reached the bottom-most of the plans. It was a little sloppier than the others, the barest of outlines. He squinted at the notes, trying to make sense of it. 

Then, quite a few things clicked into place, one right after the other. Oh. _Oh._ Matthew gently set the stack back in its place, the final blueprint still in his hands. He cleared his throat. “I… had no idea you were _serious_.” 

Gilbert looked up, confused, before understanding dawned like the flip of a switch. “I… I mean, I did bring it up.” 

Matthew stared at the drawing, “Yeah but… this is _real._ ” He put it down. “Using power dampeners to make something like the Executive’s powers? To _remove_ a hero’s powers?” 

Gilbert shrugged a shoulder, “It was just an idea—”

“—But it’s genius.” Their eyes met. “I mean, power dampeners. Villains are always trying to get their hands on some to fight heroes, to hold them back for a second.” Matthew sat back. “But if the effect was made… stronger…?” he shook his head, “If anyone could pull it off, you could.” 

Gilbert flushed a cherry red. “You were talking about how your brother got everything handed to him because of his powers, and you were left— _well_ —invisible. It’s fucked, Birdie. We work too hard for that shit.” 

Matthew stared at the drawing a long time, heart thudding. Alfred without powers… even for a short time… Who would he _be_?

“... If we could make this work… We would be on the front page headlines for weeks,” Matthew thought aloud. 

“Yeah. Talk about a big break.” He shrugged evenly, “I would say it’s about damn time.” 

Matthew laughed, feeling like he was standing at the base of a mountain and finally seeing the peak through the clouds. The idea that he could make it was just slightly inside the realm of possibility. It also had him a little dizzy. 

“Where could we get power dampeners?” 

Gilbert winced, “ _Yeah_ , that’s where we might run into a slight hiccup. The only way non-government people can get them is the black market—you know, like everything else worth buying—and _because_ there’s such a tight lock and key on the stuff, it is OUTRAGEOUSLY expensive.” 

“Have you thought about pitching it to the Council?” Matthew asked. 

Gilbert sucked in his teeth, shaking his head, “There’s no way that’s going to work. They’ll think we’re insane.” He looked down at his shoes, silent for a long while. Matthew waited. “... _But_ …” There it was. “I have an idea of where we might be able to get some. You’re not going to like it much, though.” 

“IT’S NO BIGGIE!” Gilbert attempted to convince Matthew as well as himself, “It’s just dinner!” 

“Yeah, with a _hero cop_!” Matthew hissed as Gilbert stood with his finger incessantly ringing the apartment.

“Well, there’s not exactly many villain cops we can pay a visit to, now are there? _Well_. Self-identifying as villain. Besides, all he’s got is super strength.” 

Both parties remained unconvinced of the notion that this was a _good_ idea, but for the moment it was their only idea. Several floors up, Ludwig Beilschmidt tugged off his apron and oven mitts to let in his brother and his partner. 

“— _Look, it’ll be simple—_ ” Gilbert was saying as Ludwig answered the intercom. Ludwig sighed internally, that not sounding incredibly promising. Ludwig wondered what the odds were that Gilbert was being genuine. He wondered if that slim chance was larger or smaller due to his partner coming along. 

“Will you please let off the bell,” Ludwig asked of him. 

“ _LUDDY!”_ Gilbert cried directly into the microphone, making the audio crackle, and not letting off the bell. “ _ÖFFNE DIE TÜR! ES IST SCHEIßKALT!”_

The door to the lobby clicked open and Gilbert shouldered inside, a heavy set of boots and a softer slap of sneakers on the stairs. “WHY SHOULD I USE THE DOOR WHEN YOU’RE SO GOD DAMN SLOW?!” Gilbert yelled into his brother’s face, in German, before promptly tackling the larger man in a laughing hug. Matthew, standing behind him, spoke no German, and was confused why the shouting sounded so angry.

The two supervillains entered the apartment. Matthew stuck close to Gilbert’s side, trying to look as easy-going as Gilbert. Gilbert planted each step with villainous purpose, trying to look as collected as Matthew. Ludwig watched the two of them out of the corner of his eye, hoping not to be too obvious about it. 

The three of them, all trying very hard to project a certain presence into the situation, took their seats at Ludwig’s table. The table was set with precision, the plates and cutlery all in their exactly proper places, because the article Ludwig had consulted prior to their arrival had said this would make a good impression on houseguests. The attention of his houseguests, however, was focused elsewhere, and gave no notice to the placement of the table elements. This was primarily due to there being a large pot of spaghetti in the center of the table.

“It is good to have you over,” Ludwig told the supervillains at his table, trying to be genuine enough for all three of them. “Please, help yourselves to as much spaghetti as you want.” Ludwig told them this even more earnestly, as the pot would not fit in his refrigerator. 

None of them required further prompting to load their plates with pasta and garlic bread. 

“This is fantastic,” Matthew said, _so_ genuine that the muscular officer before him looked away bashfully. 

“Thank you very much. It’s a friend’s recipe.”

Gilbert tutted, then. “A _friend_? Luddy, you still haven’t asked him out?”

Ludwig flushed a deep scarlet, no Internet article able to give him pointers for his brother embarrassing him. “I… Listen, it’s not like that… He’s… Gilbert is this really the best time—”

“—LUDWIG HE IS SO INTO YOU.” 

“You don’t _know_ that,” Ludwig grumbled, a little hurt. “He’s an… outwardly affectionate man. I wouldn’t want to ruin the friendship we have by being so presumptuous as to—”

“—He gave you his spaghetti recipe, Luddy. He is begging on his knees for you to get into his panties.” 

“ _Gilbert._ ” 

Gilbert stood abruptly, then, figuring this was as good a time as any. “EXCUSE ME. I must piss. Please continue with your meal.” 

It was clever enough, getting Ludwig flustered before making his move, Matthew thought. Matthew, however, really wished he hadn’t left him to deal with it. He twirled some spaghetti around his fork. 

“I’m very sorry for that,” Ludwig sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“It’s… fine…” Matthew’s mind raced wildly for ways to keep the officer occupied. “But, your, uh, friend really gave you a great recipe though. The, uh, amount of garlic in here is perfect.” 

Ludwig looked at him for a moment. “Thank you.” 

Matthew quickly swallowed a mouthful of water. He needed to fill the silence, but what was he even supposed to _say_? He figured it would be pretty tasteless for him, a supervillain with an arrest warrant out for his alter-ego, to ask him about his job. 

Ludwig broke the silence first, “I hope he’s not too much of a handful.” 

“I mean, it’s been…” He was talking to a cop “... Good…? Uh… We have a lot in common…” 

A smile played at Ludwig’s lips, “I would assume that, yes.” 

“Haha, yeah...”

Ludwig watched him a second more, “You know, Matthew, I had assumed Gilbert was up to something until he mentioned he wanted me to meet his partner.” Truly, Ludwig had begun to think Gilbert was too wrapped up in his ‘work’ to so much as consider dating. Ludwig had thought the two of them had had at least that in common. Perhaps it was a good thing people could subvert expectations. 

Matthew took a long drink of water and quickly glanced around the apartment, catching a glimpse of an animal shelter flier neatly tacked beside a calendar. He nodded to it. “So are you thinking of adopting?” 

Ludwig sat up a little straighter, clearing his throat, “Yes, actually. You see, there was an… interesting event recently, where an animal rights activist released all the dogs in a pound—” Matthew took another long drink of water “—and it was discovered that conditions were not properly suitable for the animals. Of course, other shelters are struggling to accommodate the influx…” Ludwig shrugged a shoulder. “And I _have_ been considering getting a dog for some time…” 

“You definitely should. A dog helps _so_ much for coming home after a stressful day.” 

Ludwig nodded contemplatively, “You have a dog?” 

Matthew brightened, “Yeah! I adopted him too! Want to see pictures?” 

Ludwig laced his fingers together on the table, expression stony as ever, “I would love that.” 

In the bedroom, Gilbert tried to go through his brother’s internal monologue—if _he_ were Ludwig, where would he put the power dampener handcuffs? He cracked open the closet, finding uniforms, but no fun gadgets attached. _Damn it_. He didn’t have much time. Would Ludwig really _hide_ his cuffs? They couldn’t be too far, right? Gilbert stretched to try to reach a box at the top of the closet. _Gott_ , who gave Ludwig the right to get taller than him? 

“Oh my god, he’s so cute,” Ludwig said as Matthew swiped through his latest several pictures of Kumajiro. 

“And here he is with his favorite ball.” 

“I love him. Oh my god, look at his little nose.”

It occurred to Matthew his phone’s pictures consisted nearly exclusively of his dog. “... And here he is on his birthday,” Matthew showed Ludwig the picture of Kumajiro in the party hat the dog had briefly tolerated. Ludwig nodded enthusiastically.

Gilbert clenched his teeth as his fingers just barely brushed against the box. This _had_ to be either a porn stash or where Ludwig kept some awesome cop gear. He threw a glance over his shoulder. Still nothing. Maybe if he…? 

“So…” Ludwig said, deciding he should probably say something to Matthew other than gushing over dogs, “How long have you and Gilbert been together again?”

Matthew tilted his head in confusion. “Working together?” 

From the other room, there was a loud crash. Matthew held his breath in the ensuing silence. He swiped to another picture of his dog. Ludwig let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose again. “You are both _terrible_ at this, you know. Please go fetch him.” 

Matthew laughed nervously, “I, uh, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Gil must have knocked over some… soap… in the bathroom.”

Ludwig sighed deeper, standing.

“Um? Um, actually I think maybe you shouldn’t—” 

But it took Ludwig very few steps to find Gilbert in his closet. “Can we PLEASE finish dinner? I promise you you’re not going to find anything useful to you in there.”

“Sure, sure, of course, Luddy! I was just wondering if we could borrow your handcuffs?” 

Ludwig was incredibly tired, yet this new little revelation still caused his eyebrows to shoot into his hairline. “I promise you there’s plenty of those online. Padded, even.” 

“Fuck OFF, Ludwig!” Gilbert threw Ludwig’s uniform at him. Ludwig hung it up neatly behind him. Gilbert dropped the facade as the two returned to the dining table together. “Look, we’re searching for power dampeners. Any idea where I can get some?” Matthew felt like he was going to have a heart attack. 

Ludwig nodded good-naturedly through a bite of spaghetti, “You know, you should come over more,” he said, naturally providing no answer. He paused before adding: “And be _honest_ with me more.” 

Gilbert put a hand to his heart, admittedly rather touched. “And here I was thinking you’d rather not hear it.” He sat forward, shovelling some more spaghetti into his mouth, “Plus I’d never want to get my little bro in any trouble.” 

Ludwig smiled lightly, for the first time this evening knowing Gilbert was sincere even though he didn’t let it on in his tone. “We should start working out together again.” 

“Hell yeah we should! You know, that sketchy-ass gym we used to go to is still open. Still no surveillance for your bosses to take a gander at.”

Ludwig shrugged a shoulder, “Sounds good to me. Do Tuesday mornings still work for you?”

“I can make anything work for my little bro.” Gilbert grinned over at him, a smudge of tomato at the corner of his mouth. Ludwig smiled back, happy with the arrangements. 

A dull pain soaked through Matthew’s heart. Ludwig was a superhero. And a cop. Literally the worst combination. And yet he would still take the risk to spend time with his villain brother—a villain brother who had more than one arrest warrant out for him AND his alter-ego. He couldn’t seem to shake the knowledge that Alfred simply _wouldn’t_ do that for him.

Ludwig ended up sending both of them home with Tupperwares of spaghetti. Gilbert bear-hugged his brother goodbye at the door. Then, they were walking back to Gilbert’s.

The lights of the city streets burned away every last bit of darkness the alleyways could muster. The smell of homemade spaghetti lingered between the two supervillains, as did a mostly-comfortable silence that left only a few things unsaid. Gilbert tried not to dwell on how the naturalness of it struck him—walking away from his brother’s house with Matthew at his side, full of good food and plans for the future. Instead, he sucked in the cool city air between his teeth, and let the container of spaghetti leak its warm into the night air. 

“Think we should go see your brother about power dampeners next?” 

“I’m not sure we’d get any good food out of it.” 

“Couldn’t hurt to try,” Gilbert winked over at him, “I wouldn’t mind having dinner set for the week.”

Matthew smiled down at the ground, counting the steps between the cracks in the sidewalk. “He’s probably having one of his parties. The invite never quite finds its way to me anymore.” 

Gilbert hummed. “Now, see, I always got the idea his famous parties were on a more ‘show up and bring all your friends’ basis.”

“They are. The friends aren’t villains, though.” 

“Sounds lame as shit,” was Gilbert’s astute observation. 

Matthew shrugged. “It’s weird. He knows enough people to pack the place, but he doesn’t _know_ any of them. It’s like no one who goes would actually be there for _him_ ; they’re there for Captain Jones. He’s always been bad about the villain thing, but we _did_ used to spend more time together before he got all involved with the Commission.” He was quiet a moment. “It can’t be good for a person not to have a single person in a house full of people you can really confide in.” 

* * *

  
Alfred hollered at the TV as, together, surrounded by an avalanche of proper gamer fuel, he and Kiku defeated the boss battle. He collapsed back against the couch cushions, taking a swig of soda, grinning over at Kiku who smiled right back, eyes alight in the blue of the screen. “Dude that was AWESOME! We gotta do this more often, man.” 

Kiku laughed and nodded his agreement, “It seems like you could use the help.” 

“I resent that, dude.” 

Kiku smiled into his own can of soda. “I figured you would.” 

“Kiku, you’re a lotta fun, you know that?” Al yawned and stretched. “You still got that grading to do?” 

Kiku checked the time, and the drop in his face gave him all the answer he needed, “I-I didn’t realize I’d been here so long—”

Alfred waved it away, “--Time flies when it’s spent with cool folks like you.” 

“And games like that,” Kiku nodded to the TV. Al shrugged. 

“Sure, that too.” 

Kiku looked at the wall to pretend like he wasn’t smiling.

“Do you want me to walk you home? You know, in case the Council tries to pull something again.” 

Kiku quickly shook his head, “No, no… Thank you, though… I’ll be fine.” He stood, reaching for his jacket. He paused. “I know where to find you if I need you.” 

Al grinned. Kiku busied himself with gathering his snack food trash. “Hell yeah, man! You can come back over anytime you want.” 

“... Thank you, Alfred.”

“Actually! I’m planning on having a kickass party soon if you wanna come! Love to see you there!” 

Kiku shifted on his feet. “I’m really not one for parties…” he excused. He took a slow breath. “... But I’d like to do this again.” 

  
  


The night air was cool in the city. Many of the citizens were already tucked away into warm beds. Gilbert Beilschmidt, as he was in many things, remained an anti-example. The supervillain had set his spaghetti in the fridge and climbed on a whim to the roof of his building, where he lay flat on his back staring up at a sky where few stars cared enough to glance down at him. He thought maybe he could use the air, or perhaps the wish of a shooting star. The world seemed as reluctant to give him that as he was reluctant to admit to his own feelings bubbling within his chest as thick as a pot of homemade tomato sauce from a lovingly-shared recipe. 

Gilbert Beilschmidt didn’t know what it was he wanted, but in his mind there was a man. In his mind there were plans, and there were schemes—all of which had always been there—but there was a new source of gravity they now seemed to orbit. And Gilbert wasn’t sure why he didn’t mind it at all. Perhaps he should? 

There were questions, Gilbert knew. And wants. That was undeniable. There were uncertainties, and there were desires. There were futures and there was Tupperware spaghetti, but painfully, unmistakably, in his mind there was a man. 

Similarly, far across town, trudging home with his jacket pulled tight against the wind, Kiku Honda was berating himself with questions. The key difference between Gilbert and Kiku was that—while Gilbert had yet to look a single of his questions in the eye, Kiku was intent on beating himself over the head with each and every one of them. Why had he agreed? Why had he said that? Why had he gone in the first place? What did he think he was doing? 

Kiku made attempts to sort through his thoughts as if they weren’t as messy as Gilbert’s. The key difference between Kiku and Gilbert’s denial was that Kiku took significant care to pretend to himself that the risks he took were calculated, that he knew precisely what he was doing, and that he could stop at any time. Gilbert, however, preferred to pretend there was nothing there at all. Perhaps if he barricaded the door against the wave of feelings, it would remain on the other side. To Kiku it was a careful game of explaining away what was. To Gilbert, it was outright refusal to acknowledge. Yet—in their own way—what both dealt with was one in the same. 

Thoughts and feelings as turbulent as the wind through city buildings. 

Thoughts and feelings as tangled as Ivan and Yao’s fingers as they watched movies together on the couch, years removed from _that_ particular old pain. 

Thoughts and feelings as busied as Arthur lying on his cot, plotting his next move with half of his brain, and planning his words for Francis with the other, with at least some facilities left over to toss and catch a stress ball in attempts to look like a calculating, collected villain—very sinister and very cool—until the ball promptly came down to smack him in the face. 

Thoughts and feelings that held no resemblance to Vasch, tending to his goats kept in the Neutral Alliance Headquarters, considering only things that mattered to him, and—if given the opportunity to care about any of this—wouldn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert’s German: “Open the door! It’s fucking cold!” (Untranslated because scheißkalt—literally, shit cold—is such a wonderful word)
> 
> Take care of yourselves, folks, and feel free to share any feelings YOU may have in the comments :)


	10. A Day of Evil Deeds & Frilly Cosplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A chain is only as strong as its weakest link_
> 
> _But what’s the metaphor for when the links are all terrible?_

If one were to keep track of the headlines, as some do, there would be several things worth noticing. Across front pages everywhere was the discussion of a mysterious super who’d caused the High Council a great deal of grief— _Council AND Commission Stumped!_ it declared. _(NA Comments N/A)_ it noted also, since the Neutrals had as usual refused to weigh in.

Should one wish to peruse the ads dispersed at regular points throughout the paper, there would be a block devoted to Yao Wang’s restaurant— _Try our chai!_ it suggested. Nearby, if one had a significant amount of money and a few questions about love eternal, there was a phone number to be reached under the name _Bonnefoy._

Additionally, quite popular were the comments from the newest addition to the Great Commission on what it was like to be a Commissioner. A few pages back, also popular, was an editorial discussing the role of sex appeal in the new Commissioner in question. 

If one so chose, toward the back of the paper there was ample opportunity to gaze at the latest mugshots of wanted supervillains. As they were alphabetized, the Silver Panic—filed under Gilbert Beilschmidt—would be one of the first the eye would fall on: a ghostly white, grinning visage with a swollen and bloodied nose from an arrest several months prior. 

Making third page headlines, it could be read that _Farmers’ Market Booth Destruction Decreases by 2000% After Declared Neutral Zone_. 

If one were to squint around page five, extremely minor villainy perpetuated by a suspected two culprits could be found, but of much greater significance were the page-encompassing reminders that the local Comic Con had come to town. 

* * *

Matthew rang up another customer’s groceries, smiling the whole time. “Hi, how are you folks today?” he said, stuck on too much of a loop to fully process that there was only one guy standing in front of him. The guy didn’t even notice, so Matthew kept scanning the bar codes, the beep rhythmic enough it had him swallowing yet another yawn. 

Vaguely, Matthew wondered how Gilbert was doing. Power dampeners from Ludwig out of the question, they’d had only one option left: Council funds. Gilbert was pitching the idea about power removal to Finance today while Matthew was at work. The both of them were very different sides of the same strange coin, it would seem: broke, not having much choice in how they went about getting the money they needed, and absolutely needing a break—big or otherwise. 

* * *

Alfred couldn’t be more stoked! The Comic Con was absolutely booming with people, so many of them in super sweet costumes. He was in a pretty awesome cosplay himself, too. He’d spent quite a while putting the whole thing together; he’d tried to be as accurate as he could. Normally he was Captain Jones—savior of the city, stopper of villains. But today he was the great THUNDER MAN—savior of the UNIVERSE, stopper of DOOMSDAY! 

So anyway he was in a whole lot of spandex. He looked great, though. 

Tell you who else looked pretty great: Kiku’s outfit was from the first Neko Zombie Ninja, so he was in a maid costume—frills, lace, ribbons, and all. What a legend. Through more than a few afternoons and evenings when they’d both found time off, they’d beat Alfred’s game _easy_ and even unlocked all the achievements. So they’d started some new games together. Plus an anime or two. Honestly, Alfred hadn't had someone who was this nice to hang around in a long time. 

“So when were you expecting that call for your research?” Alfred asked conversationally. 

Kiku didn’t miss a beat, saying, “I was not given a specific time.” 

“You should talk more about your work. Sounds cool as hell—learning about supers’ weaknesses. What’s the _weirdest_ one you’ve ever gotten? Mountain Dew is their Kryptonite? Stuff doesn’t work unless they’re holding an orange?” 

Kiku smiled lightly at the ground. “ _Well_ , ‘weakness’ does not necessarily equal a Kryptonite or… odd little condition. Rarely is what would be classified a ‘weakness’ in my studies something so definitive and concrete.”

Alfred grinned over at his friend. It was so easy to get Kiku talking about this stuff. It was cute as hell. “Oh yeah?” Alfred prompted further. It was nice to listen to him talk. 

“Often the super is unaware of limits their powers may have, or weak links in personal relationships that could come to affect their safety and effectiveness as an active super. Even a personality quirk could become detrimental in the line of work. What makes a weakness a _weakness_ is when it causes harm. An open manhole in the street is not a weakness of the street; likely it’s open for a good reason. It becomes an issue when it goes unnoticed by a pedestrian and someone gets hurt.” 

“Sweet, so the duality of manholes, not concrete Kryptonite, got it.” Kiku immediately opened his mouth to tack on some more technicalities, but Alfred smiled at him, “ _Kidding_! Kidding. It’s a complex topic, I know. So your advisor will be calling about research stuff?” 

“Something like that.” 

“And they didn’t give you a _time_ they’d be calling? On the day of Comic Con?! That’s criminal.” 

Kiku laughed softly and nodded. 

The two of them squeezed through the crowd, gawking at all the booths. In a crowd of colorful folks, awesome merch, and renowned creators—with his best friend at his side to boot—Alfred’s heart was full to bursting. He was basically skipping in Thunder Man’s heavy blue rain boots. “Alfred,” Kiku stopped him suddenly with a hand on his arm. 

“What’s up, dude?”  
He pointed, eyes wide. Alfred looked. “Oh my GOD. Is that…?!”

“Yeah.” 

“LET’S GO!” 

* * *

Matthew wiped sweat from his forehead as he finished shoving the long line of carts back inside. His walkie hissed some static at him, along with his supervisor’s voice. “ _Hey Matt?_ _Customer needs help getting something from a shelf. None of us can reach it. The stockers have all the step ladders in the back.”_

Matthew was heading for the door before she’d finished her request, used to it. “Coming.”

* * *

Kiku walked side-by-side with Alfred, both of them now with arms full of merchandise and a few freshly autographed items. Frankly, Kiku couldn’t wipe the smile from his face if he tried. 

Today was going to be a _busy_ day, but one he had been waiting for for some time. He adored Comic Con as much as the next person who was a fan of anything and the opportunity to spend it with a great friend; it would almost be difficult to slip away from it for even a small time. 

Almost. His anticipation of the day came from multiple sources. 

Besides, he would not be gone long from the Con. If all went according to plan, Alfred wouldn’t even notice his brief absence. It was going to be a lovely day for the both of them. Kiku glanced at the hero at his side, a towering figure in orange, his blue eyes sparkling out from behind a mask. It already _was_ a good day. 

Perhaps Kiku was spectacularly stupid for hanging around a hero as he was—a member of the Commission now, no less... Kiku’s heart ached a little on its next beat… But it was nothing he couldn’t handle, he told himself. Yes, today he could handle all of his commitments. 

“No. Way.” A Con-goer stopped in his tracks, following his double-take with a triple-take. “ _Captain Jones_?!” 

Alfred laughed good-naturedly and threw up some finger guns. “The very same!” 

“CAN WE GET A PICTURE?!” 

“No problem!”

Alfred posed for a selfie with three people, joking and laughing with them as he did. Even through the mask, he had been getting attention like this most of the day—seeming as much an exciting attraction of the Comic Con as any of the actors playing the movie superheroes Alfred himself was dressed as. Alfred gave a peace sign to the camera, a natural. 

No costume could hide who Alfred was. He shone like a star—so much light and energy for one person. It was light that couldn’t be concealed; it was light that could beckon even a villain like him to it. 

Not one person who had approached Alfred yet, event photographers and reporters included, had asked about Kiku, the Captain’s quiet and as-of-yet unnamed companion. It was a light bright enough to outshine everything and everyone around him. 

What a gift fame was for a hero, and likewise what a gift being glanced over was for a villain like him. Especially a villain like him who could use an alibi. 

It didn’t take long for Alfred to detach himself from the selfie seekers with a laugh and a wave so they all could continue with their day. He was used to this, quite skilled at it. Skilled or not, though, Kiku thought: light like that must come at such a price. Alfred would never be able to hide. Alfred would never know obscurity, this was true, but he would also never know what respite it could be to dissolve into the shadows. 

Weakness was often misunderstood. It was often blurry, occasionally ambiguous. After all, any perceived ‘flaw' could become the spawning point for unprecedented growth. And even the greatest of strengths could prove a downfall given the right circumstances. 

* * *

His heavy metal playlist racketing off the bathroom walls, Gilbert slathered himself in enough sunscreen to drown the average, less awesome, less immediately susceptible to sunburn human man as he waited for the nail polish on one of his hands to dry. He was really going to have to bring it for this one. 

Finance was going to fucking love him. He was going to look so good they would simply have no other choice! 

They were going to want him, want to be him, want to be in his custom leather pants in more ways than one because he was about to make them jealous _and_ horny. 

Rubbing the sunscreen into his cheeks, Gilbert took a moment to assess himself in the mirror. _He looked tired_ , was the first thing he saw. He shoved the thought away. Tired of being piss fucking _poor_. Mouthing along to the screaming coming from the speakers, Gilbert spritzed on some cologne so he smelled a little more like a dark and evil forest and a little less like a family-friendly beach vacation. 

He was going to waltz into his presentation, fucking kill it, blow everybody’s tits off with how awesome it was, and they were going to give him enough money to eat power dampeners with his morning coffee. And also hopefully dig into their inner workings and create highly experimental and potentially dangerous power-sucking tech. Nothing could stand in his way. 

Gilbert shook up his bottle of black nail polish. And this was going to be the best paint job with a non-dominant hand the world had ever _seen_. 

By the time he was boldly swaggering out the door, he looked like a million bucks. He looked like he deserved a raise a thousand times over for the sheer millions of bucks he was. He grabbed his key from the kitchen table, pointedly ignoring the bills that were piling up on it, and closed the door with a flourish behind him. 

* * *

Kiku tried not to fidget as he and Alfred inched through the line to the small auditorium. “DUDE, I’ve been waiting for this for MONTHS since they put out that sneak peek!” Alfred said, not for the first time.

“Right, yes,” Kiku nodded, “And who is Thunder Man fighting this time?” 

This seemed to open a can of worms. Alfred took a deep breath. “I feel like a better question would be who _isn’t_ he and Dr. Lightning going up against.”

Alfred gave the security guards at the door their tickets, striking up a friendly dialogue when he was received with another “Captain Jones?!” 

Then the two were packing into a standing room only crowd before a large screen. Alfred was practically vibrating with excitement beside him. “I can’t believe we’re _actually_ going to see the FIRST EVER showing of the full trailer!” he gushed. 

Alfred’s excitement was contagious, soaking its way into Kiku’s stomach next to the clench of anxiety. Slightly breathless, Kiku flashed him a genuine smile as his heart sped up. “I can’t believe it either.” 

Kiku pressed a button on his phone, the device buzzing like he was receiving a call. He made a show about looking down at it in surprise, then sighing loudly. “My call. I have to take this,” he excused. 

“Oh, come on! Now? Really? Can’t you tell them you’re doing something important right now?!” 

“I’m afraid not. Hopefully I will be back before the end of the showing.”

Alfred patted him on the shoulder sympathetically. “Good luck, dude!” 

Kiku nodded, putting the phone to his ear as he slipped quietly out of the auditorium and down a side hallway not open to Con Goers. Kiku pulled open the door to the small staff bathroom, locking the door behind him, and retrieving his stowed bag from the ceiling tile above the toilet. 

In the space of seconds, Kiku had every trace of his cosplay removed and replaced with black. Then he pulled his mask over his head, concealing all but a strip for his eyes, attaching his voice modulator to the bottom half of his face over it and pulling on dark circular safety goggles over his eyes. With that, he was looking quite a lot more like the supervillain he was, which was a good thing, as his work was about to go _very_ public. 

Practicalities over with, Kiku strung a dark cape over his shoulders. Then it was a matter of the finishing touches—gloves, naturally, and shoes, of course. 

Kiku rummaged through the remaining contents of his bag. Then rummaged through it again. Oh, how stupid. He hadn’t thought to bring black socks, of all things. He glanced down at the ones he had on for his cosplay: tall, lacy frills, and cute pink ribbons. It wouldn’t matter, he decided; his pants and shoes should conceal them. 

He laced up his shoes over them, willed himself to blend into the world around him, and slipped unseen into the alley beside the event center. 

* * *

Matthew trudged out of the bathroom, wheeling the cart of cleaning supplies after him absently, the horrors he had witnessed in there—and then cleansed—burned into his brain. One of his coworkers passed him, stopping in their tracks upon finding him. “Oh, hey, Matthew! Glad you’re done with that! While you’ve got the cleaning stuff out, someone just dropped a jar of pickles in Aisle 6. Would you mind getting that?” 

“Sure.” 

* * *

The enchanted snake statues that guarded the doors to the High Council’s tower would never let Kiku in, but he assumed the snakes were always designed to keep your typical, law-abiding _hero_ out of the building, rather than any mal-intentioned villain. It was stupendously easy to enter through one of the windows. 

Inside, Kiku fit right in with the occasional villain who was in the tower on business, but he concealed himself nonetheless as he walked purposefully toward the elevator. 

Kiku stepped into the elevator, nodding to the janitor with the mop who smiled back amiably. Adjusting his bag, Kiku pressed the button for the topmost floor—for the High Council itself. “Busy day?” Kiku asked the man.

The distorted voice didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, the janitor likely seeing quite the variety of villainous fashion working there. The janitor shook his head. “Not too many trips to Reprimands today.” The man nodded to Kiku’s selected floor. “Busy day for you?” 

“You could say that.” Kiku cleared his throat. “Actually…” he said, “You could also say my… business… here could cause a bit of a disturbance. I may suggest you take your break early, if you can.” Kiku met his eyes. “As soon as you can.” 

* * *

Alfred’s heart raced in the auditorium as the movie trailer panned through a familiar cityscape, the music serene on a lovely shot of the sunlight through skyscrapers. He could hardly believe he was here right now! Damn, Kiku was missing out!

* * *

Kiku had received information that the High Council would be out for the day. The top floor that could be reached via the main elevator was completely silent—a large meeting space for formal presentations as well as the lounge containing the hefty amount of assorted alcohols. Not everyone was even _aware_ there was a floor higher, accessible only through the Executive’s thumbprint-protected private elevator, where only members of the Council were ever granted access to. A substantial electric shock with the taser from the police officer from the jewelry heist was enough to bypass the thumbprint lock to enter the elevator itself. 

Even the elevator was lavishly decorated, simply so the Executive could remind himself he was better than everyone else. Tasting bile and sweet retribution already, Kiku rose to the true top floor of the tower. 

He stepped out into a private lounge space that was nicer than anything Kiku would ever even be allowed to dream of. Mirrors on the ceiling, gold on the coasters, wine worth more than Kiku ever would be lining the shelves. Everywhere he turned, the beauty of the city skyline sprawled beneath him. Standing here, it was easy to believe you owned the city itself. 

Humming, Kiku got to work. 

* * *

Gilbert stepped off the bus a block away from the Council’s tower, whistling. The flow of people carved a way for him, distrusting glances thrown his way adding an extra skip to his step. They recognized what he represented, and where exactly he must be headed in this part of town. 

He caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd, then. Gilbert gave the janitor from the elevator a two-fingered salute as the guy power-walked past, not noticing Gilbert in his apparent hurry to get away from work. Gilbert couldn’t say he blamed the guy. 

* * *

Alfred held his breath along with all the other fans as the music climbed alongside the tension in the trailer. He grinned up at the big screen, hardly able to contain himself. _The grand entrance was coming—!_

* * *

Shouldering his now completely-empty bag, Kiku pulled the fire alarm and called the Executive’s elevator. Kiku decided he quite liked the view from here, this elevator providing a one-way glass look over the city the whole way down as the alarms shrieked, emergency lights flashing. 

Approximately halfway down, Kiku looked down at the blinking remote in his hand. It had only two buttons. Kiku pressed the red one. 

* * *

_BOOM!!_

Alfred gasped in glee at the hero’s grand entrance, the entire auditorium shaking with the bass from the explosion. As one, he and the crowd erupted into raucous cheers and shouts. 

* * *

Several blocks away, but still in view of their typical workplace shining like an obsidian pillar in the distance, the Executive and the other Councilmembers were laughing over martinis and bruschetta outside a small cafe. 

The Executive looked up to admire his tower, how the late afternoon sunlight sparkled off of it. 

The Executive then watched as a ball of fire erupted from the top of the tower. 

His martini slipped from his fingers. “Son of a—”

* * *

“— _FUCK_!” Gilbert toppled backward in his haste to get away from the tower. He was hardly the only one with such a reaction. Shocked people had begun to cluster at the base of the building and gawk at the top—or lack thereof, to be more precise. As the crowd continued to grow and stray villains high-tailed it out the doors, most in the crowd held up a phone to record the flames. As such, the rolling cameras were able to capture the moment when Kiku Honda stepped out the front entrance of the building with a wide, proud gesture to what he had done. 

With the use of his voice modulator booming loud over the gathered masses, the supervillain at the top of the stairs delivered what was—perhaps obviously—a pre-prepared and well-practiced speech. 

The audience was about half-interested in what the supervillain actually had to say regarding the High Council of Supervillainy; most of them were still reeling with the general attitude of ‘ _holy shit that just happened and that guy just did that_.’ Some of the villains in attendance were actually quite impressed with his form—how he, in true villain fashion—didn’t so much as bother to assess the damage he had dealt. Other villains were busy wondering how long this would postpone the business they had intended to conduct within the tower. 

Kiku Honda, as was perhaps necessary given the circumstances, delivered the caveat within his speech that the explosion had been precisely calculated and was designed not to physically harm a soul. That being said, however, most of the audience was in agreement that this action and decision not to give prior warning—save for, perhaps, to a singular janitor—was still, as many would say, a dick move. 

Kiku’s speech had been crafted to assume a certain amount of time between the explosion and the arrival of first responders, but there had been a slight miscalculation on the supervillain’s part, so as Kiku was laying out what he considered an impressive and comprehensive case for the dissolution of the High Council, he had to adjust the settings on the voice changer to be heard over fire truck sirens. His window of time was closing rapidly, yet already the villains who were bothering to listen (and not turning around to see the arrival of the firefighters), found themselves intrigued by this unusual character before them.

* * *

Matthew slumped into a chair in the break room, _finally_ able to take a few deep breaths in the middle of being pulled one direction after the other. Fifteen minutes of respite. He knew it wouldn’t exactly be a properly _refreshing_ experience, but even sitting on a hard chair with coworkers watching a game show on the room’s TV a table away was bliss. He let his eyes fall closed. 

Then his phone rang. 

He squinted down at it, ready to turn it off, but then saw it was Gilbert. Matthew sat up abruptly. The presentation. 

Matthew answered the call. “Gil—”

“—HOLY FUCKING SHIT THAT WAS COOL!” 

Matthew blinked. “W-What…? So the presentation went well…?”

“MATTIE SOMEONE JUST FUCKING BLEW UP THE TOP OF THE COUNCIL’S TOWER. GUY WAS A VILLAIN GIVING A BIG ‘FUCK YOU’ TO THE COUNCIL. _SHIT,_ IT WAS COOL!” Matthew’s mind raced—a _villain_ standing up to the Council like that? Nobody was happy about the way the Council ran things, sure, but a direct strike against them? On the other end of the line, Gilbert was wheezing with laughter, “That guy will be dead by morning, but _fuck_ , that was good! Man, if they weren’t my bosses I’d fucking love to do the same thing. Oh, but yeah, also: we’re definitely going to have to postpone the whole ‘lick Council boots for a raise’ phase of our plan.” 

* * *

The quick Q&A session after the trailer had just wrapped up when Kiku slipped back through the crowd to stand at his side. He was panting like he’d been running—probably trying to catch any of the last part of this. Alfred’s heart went out to him for _barely_ missing it; he’d have to fill him in on all of it. Alfred leaned to him, “How’d it go?” 

There was a surprisingly wide smile from him, then, and a breathless, “ _Exceedingly well_.” 

Alfred laughed it off. A bit of an odd response, sure, but Alfred didn’t exactly ‘get’ Kiku’s whole academia deal either. 

The exclusive trailer premiere was the last thing on their schedule of Con activities for the day, so the two made their way back to Al’s place to get a jump on watching that box set Alfred had grabbed. The tangerine light of the Sun as it started with its setting played off the skyscrapers in the best sort of way. Alfred breathed deeply in the early evening air, blood still thrumming from the excitement of the premiere. Walking home beside the best friend he had, the wind blowing his cosplay cape back behind him, Alfred’s heart felt full to bursting. It couldn’t have been a better day. 

He glanced over at Kiku, who was a little quiet—even for him. The guy seemed like he had a lot on his mind. Looking at Kiku, noticing how the Sun glanced off his skin, how the wind tousled his dark hair, Alfred’s hair throbbed painfully in his chest. 

Kiku must have felt his eyes, because he gave Alfred a small, sideways smile. Their eyes met there, on the way home, and lingered. Alfred looked away first, coughing. 

The two rounded a corner. It was then Alfred heard the sirens in the distance. Usually, all the sirens blended together, but—dang—that sounded like a lot of them. And not too far away either. On reflex, his hand hovered toward his phone to check for any alerts, but then he remembered himself. It was his day off. He was here to spend time with his bud. Still… “What do you think that is?” Alfred asked. 

Kiku looked straight ahead. “Probably nothing.” 

The quickness and assuredness of it plucked an odd note within Alfred—the both of them lived in a city full of supers; collections of sirens didn’t too often mean _nothing_. 

But he was probably right. Alfred just wasn’t used to taking a day off—he was on alert for nothing… even if evil didn’t exactly take a break for a hero’s “day off.”

Nevertheless, the two arrived at Alfred’s and popped in the first of the DVDs. They spread across Alfred’s couch in their cosplays and it was good. Alfred relaxed into the show, into being there with Kiku, and it was all good. 

Of course, like many of their ventures went, it wasn’t too long before they ended up talking with the TV forgotten in the background. 

Alfred lay upside-down on the couch, his knees over the back of it. 

“Been thinking about your manhole thing, Kiks.”

Kiku coughed. “Uh, what?”

“The manhole analogy—about weaknesses.”

“Oh! Oh. Okay. What about it?”

Alfred shrugged, his cape bunching up under him. “So you sit down and talk with supers… about whether they’re… liable to have something go wrong? Or be betrayed by, what, their grandma?” 

“Something like that. We discuss their powers as well as their context and history of using their powers—often as a villain or hero. There’s actually quite a lot of new and fascinating data regarding Neutrals’ power usage specifically _as_ Neutrals.” 

Alfred made a face. “Do you get a _lot_ of supervillains in your interviews?”

Kiku cleared his throat. “I try to keep my data split relatively evenly between those who would identify as heroes and, yes, villains. I have also been working with other researchers on a framework to properly incorporate the experiences of Neutrals—” 

“—But what do you do if someone tells you ‘hey I’m actually this big name evil dude and my name is up on every most wanted list ever?’ Like, do you tell somebody?”

“That’s, ah, not my responsibility. As a researcher, that individual is guaranteed the same confidentiality as… someone who hasn’t… broken the law.”

“Can you do that? Just not mention it to anybody? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“We’re interested in unbiased scientific data. If we were to exclude villains from our studies, or give villains any reason not to speak with us, we would be missing a significant fraction of the bigger picture, wouldn’t we?”

Alfred pouted a little. “I _guess_ that’s important stuff. After all, your research is probably helping folks put together, like, good psychological profiles or something crazy cool like that for investigators, right? So I guess it might help us catch more of the bad guys, in the scheme of things.” 

“I’m… sure there are many applications for my work.” Kiku leaned back into the couch, looking over Alfred thoughtfully. “After all, psychologically speaking, I would say there’s pretty extensive literature to back up that most heroes have very heightened senses of self-righteousness, and self-importance.” 

Alfred grinned up at him, stretching, “And how much literature is there on academics getting so caught up in the theories and ideas they’ve got that they forget about the reality of real-life _people_ getting hurt by stuff?” 

Kiku coughed on a laugh, matching his smile along with a shake of his head. “Fair enough.” 

Alfred slugged him playfully on the leg.

“Okay, but like,” Alfred gestured like he was holding a basketball, “The weakness thing, though. In movies you see it all the time how someone’s significant other or family member or friend or whatever gets kidnapped by the Big Bad and the villain goes ‘haha, your WEAKNESS is you’re SOFT’ or something—is that legit?” 

Kiku chewed on it a moment before he said, “No. I wouldn’t say that at all. Love,” he cleared his throat, “Personal connections, wanting to protect those you care about, having a moral code: these are not weaknesses. True weakness is more often something the super isn’t aware of until it’s too late—a weak link in a chain. Having powers fail when they’re needed most. A betrayal waiting to come.” 

Alfred’s phone went off with a call, startling him. He’d almost forgotten he’d turned it back on. He checked the caller and sucked in air through his teeth. So much for a day off. “Hey, sorry, I gotta take this. Gimme a sec.” He slipped into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. 

* * *

  
Kiku compared his thumbs in his lap as Alfred got up. His plan had been a complete success. It had gone better than he could have ever hoped. This was naturally a relief. 

Yet, he wasn’t _reveling_ in it. He didn’t quite understand why. By all metrics, he should be in a celebratory mood. He should be opening a bottle of champagne. And yet… 

His mind was on his research. It was rather funny that Alfred would be the one to bring it up. His own words rang in his mind. His mind was on weakness— _true_ weakness. His mind was on his student who had asked about Alfred’s. His mind was on how that curiosity had been but one of many selfish reasons for accepting that first coffee with the hero. 

His mind was on the friendship the two of them had, and the way Alfred would look at him. 

His mind was on Alfred’s trusting nature, his steadfast optimism, and the fact that it was _Kiku_ in his home, with his trust. And the fact that Alfred had no idea in the world who precisely Kiku was or what he had done. 

Kiku’s mind was on the topic of weakness. It often was; it was his area of study. 

Alfred trusted him, obviously cared for him. Alfred was so much light. He was over-eager to share it, perhaps, as he had chosen to share it with Kiku, and as he had chosen to call Kiku his best friend. Of all the people in the city, _Kiku_ had found himself as Captain Alfred Jones’ best friend. 

With a shock that left a hollow pit in his stomach, it occurred to Kiku that Alfred _did_ have a weakness, and that that weakness was very likely him. 

* * *

“You must excuse the timing, Captain,” the head of the Commission said, “I know you told us you were taking your day off. This is nothing we can’t handle for now, _but_ … it is critical you are aware. So, tell me, do you know what’s happened?”

Alfred scrunched his eyebrows together, dropping his voice, “I mean I heard some sirens earlier, but no—no idea. What’s up?” 

“Captain, there’s been an explosion—a _large_ explosion. No one was hurt. It was the work of a supervillain who is as of yet unapprehended. Interestingly, the villain’s target was other villains—the villain explained it as a ‘message’ to the High Council, which appears to be corroborated by the fact that the damage was solely to the High Council’s tower, specifically the part of the building where the High Council is reported to meet.” The Head paused, then. “But, really, Captain—you heard _nothing_ of this until now? It’s going to be the talk of the city for weeks.” 

“Not a peep; I was at the Comic Con all day.”

“Captain, that location is relatively close to the Council’s tower. You didn’t _hear_ the explosion?”

“When was it?”

There was the shuffling of note papers, “Precisely 6:13 this evening.” 

Alfred’s mind whirled. “I… I was watching a premiere at the time.” 

The Head sighed. “No matter, Captain. We will address the topic tomorrow—it seems the High Council _and_ us Commissioners will have a common matter of discussion.” 

Alfred laughed along with the Head at that one—as if they could have anything in common with the likes of supervillains. “I’ll look into it, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Alfred told him, and ended the call. That left him alone in a quiet room, the muffled noise of the TV drifting in from the other room. Alfred looked out over the sparkling lights of the city, sifting through his thoughts. 

What a mess. 

He reached for the doorknob to rejoin his friend on the couch... and then he stopped to think. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to work at a grocery store if you can't tell. Folks, I don't miss it. 
> 
> Hope you liked the update!


	11. Revelations, Ponies, Lacy Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The story of humankind is one of unwavering resilience in the face of adversity_
> 
> _This is by no means that story_

Due to explosive reasons, Gilbert’s cash grab presentation was postponed a couple days (and relocated to a conference room a few floors down). Gilbert would never pass up more time to get his shit together. 

So he worked on doing that, mock presentation style. He and Mattie were down in his lab, Matthew sitting cross-legged up on Gilbert’s desk chair and idly snacking on some grapes. Matthew, since he wasn’t the one ‘presenting,’ was in his usual t-shirt and jeans. Gilbert meanwhile had donned his long coat that made him look like he was here to fuck shit up, but professionally. Of course, if the finance reps he was set to be giving this presentation to were anything like Matthew, maybe he would be a bit more confident about the nigh impossible task ahead of him: convince assholes he was worth handing some cash out to. 

Matthew popped another grape in his mouth as Gilbert projected his spiel at the different unfinished projects under tarps around his lab. It was hard to smother his grin with Matthew giving him the occasional thumbs-up when their eyes met, so Gilbert didn’t bother—he only hoped it looked properly maniacal. 

“—Can you even imagine what a power dampener could do in the hands of an inventor like me? Can you even imagine what it would be like to render heroes _powerless_?” Gilbert bared his fangs, trying not to laugh. 

Matthew raised his hand politely. 

Gilbert gestured to him with all the sweeping theatrics he could muster, throwing ‘serious’ to the wind. “Please, fair evildoer, ask any questions you may have.” 

Matthew nodded sagely. “Right, so. We here with the Council are interested in taking over the city? Can you speak to that?” 

Gilbert laughed at the ceiling, holding out his hand for Matthew to take and enticing him like a dancer to his feet. “My dearest scoundrel, you’re too short-sighted. Together, we will rule the _world_. Can’t you see it?”

Matthew crossed his arms, circling him. “Actually, I’m _near_ -sighted and I find that very insensitive,” Matthew told him, pushing his glasses up his nose. “But world domination does sound appealing. And all you need is the raise, you say?”

“But of course. If you were to back me with your—” Gilbert took a daring step toward him— “ _sizeable_ financial resources… Why, Mr. Finance Man, we could be kings. Emperors. Sweet princes.” 

“And not one of those a democratically elected position. I think your head is in the right place, Mr. Panic. But is your heart? What would you do with all that power?” Matthew took a step right back at him, winding his casual circle tighter around him. His violet eyes glowed under the fluorescent lights even as his lips twitched against a smile. Gilbert’s heart beat faster. 

“I would have the resources to be exactly the man I already am.” 

Matthew’s eyes raked him up and down, a villain crunching the numbers. A cat playing with a mouse. Gilbert swallowed despite himself, tracking his every movement. “Yeah?” _Fuck_ , his voice got lower. “And what kind of man are you, Gilbert?” 

Matthew was in his space. And Gilbert had forgotten to breathe. 

_Can I be yours?_ Gilbert’s mind whimpered. 

They both seemed to realize just how close they’d gotten at once, the tension snapping like a rubber band. They each cleared their throats. 

Matthew took a step back, nodding at the ground and biting the inside of his cheek. The long, uncomfortable silence stretched. “That was good,” Matthew told him, voice strained. “You, uh. You carry yourself well. I’m sure we’ll get the raise.” 

“Thanks.” Gilbert could feel the redness burning his cheeks, but he wasn’t the only one on that end. It was a little stuffy down here. 

“Uh, I think I’ve got some… taxes… to finish up? Back home?” Matthew excused. 

“Oh, yeah. Right. Me too. We should do that.” Gilbert began to turn, but then Matthew grasped him by the coat. 

And fixed his collar for him. 

Right. Again, Gilbert remembered to breathe, his heart trying to catch back up on that missed beat there. 

He was sure he was even redder now. But so was Matthew. 

“I’ll see you?” 

“Huh? Oh. Taxes.” Gilbert coughed. “Yeah. See you. Good luck with that.”

Gilbert stared at the ground and listened to Matthew’s hurried steps recede up the stairs, and then out the door. And Gilbert was left alone, in his cool villain coat, with a heart beating out of his chest. 

* * *

Francis scrubbed at a particularly persistent stain on the dish. Vasch Zwingli stood next to him doing much the same. The two worked in silence before the mountain of dishes in NAH’s industrial-sized sink. 

The Neutrals could always use the extra assistance in cleaning up after their weekly community meal. _Well_ , community meal ‘for Neutrals’—and those a Neutral may bring along—was the officially stated purpose, as if it wasn’t always open to any wandering soul in need of a warm meal and some peace. Francis knew Vasch would never admit to that—nothing that could reveal him as a _kind_ soul, anything but that. 

Around them, Neutrals helped wrap up leftovers in to-go containers for people. A sparse scattering of heroes wiped down tables. A handful of plainclothes villains mopped and swept the floors, desserts in Tupperware containers concealed under coats like they were up to any proper mischief at all. 

And beside him, Vasch Zwingli in rubber gloves and an apron attacked a soapy cup with a vengeance and a scrub brush. 

Francis smiled lightly to himself. 

“Stop it,” Vasch grunted.

“Whatever do you mean, my friend?” 

Francis watched him grind his teeth, annoyed at the feigned ignorance, but letting at least that slide unchecked. “You’re being too happy with yourself.” 

“Is it too much to believe I enjoy spending this time with you?” 

“Yes.”

Francis grinned. “Then I’ll tell you what was truly on my mind: there aren’t many of my kind here, Vasch.” 

Vasch scoffed, not needing to take so much as a glance around, “I am PRETTY sure there is no one here like you, Bonnefoy,” he assured him. 

“And what do you mean by _that_?” Francis gave him a playful wink. 

Vasch rolled his eyes. “Well, I let you be here because we don’t tolerate the usual bullshit.” Vasch nodded his head over to the heroes and villains cleaning the dining area. “Those guys are on thin ice. Not that you aren’t, of course.” Vasch refocused his attention on drying a plate. “But you’re not exactly much of a hero.” 

Francis sniffed daintily. “You offend me, Vasch. Being a hero is part of who I am.” 

The two lapsed back into a comfortable silence—washing, drying—Francis unwilling to smother his smile. 

“You could, of course, become a Neutral, instead of doing… whatever it is you’re doing.” Vasch looked at him sideways. 

Francis laughed. “Oh, Vasch. You _know_ I could never be a Neutral.” Francis took a moment to stretch lazily. “You see, you’re more of a ‘ _neither/nor_ ’ sort of man, but I, Vasch, am an _‘all of the above'_ man.” 

Vasch flicked an unimpressed handful of water at him while Francis dissolved into cackles. 

* * *

“Feliks,” Arthur begged, “We can both get out if you would only _help_ me—”

His new cellmate interrupted him with a pop of his bubblegum. “You do know I’ve only got a few weeks here, right? I don’t, like, want to drag this out longer than I have to. I’ve got a pony to get back to.” 

This gave Arthur some pause. He tilted his head, admittedly intrigued, “You’re allowed to have a pet horse in city limits?” 

“No, of course not. Why do you think I’m spending a few weeks with you? ‘No livestock kept on private property.’ It’s _totally_ stupid.”

Arthur took a second to absorb this. “Right. So. Wouldn’t you like to get to your pony faster, then?” 

Feliks sighed dramatically. “Okay, look. I know you’re probably an alright person and all, but... What would be in it for me?” He punctuated this with another pop of his gum. 

“You mean… beside… freedom…?”

Feliks shrugged, swinging his legs from the cot. “I told you: I’m not trying to stay here longer than I need to, so what’ll it be? And don’t say cash. That’s, like, so expected.” 

Arthur thought for a moment, then straightened. “If you help me out of here, my husband can tell you if you have a soulmate. And you—well, you’re a power emulator, aren’t you? He may even let you try out his powers for yourself.”

Feliks went quiet, chewing his gum. “Dope. What do you need me to do?” 

Arthur leaned closer. “Do you know the guard? Ludwig?” 

* * *

Matthew picked up a hot chocolate from a coffee shop down the street from his apartment. The sky was dark, heavy clouds threatening rain. Matthew’s heart was still fluttering from that little _scene_ in Gilbert’s lab. He clutched the hot chocolate close under a moody sky. Like the clouds, he felt the opposite of empty. He was full to the bursting point with so many different things—and now this. _And now this_. 

Throngs of people pushed past him, indifferent to him, indifferent to the sky above them.

_Really? Him? Career villain Gilbert Beilschmidt? Him?_

Of course Gilbert was attractive, but… 

Matthew swallowed the thought in a drink of hot chocolate. He needed a walk. Yeah. A walk would do him and Kumajiro good. 

He climbed the stairs to his apartment, grabbed his dog, and set out into the city. Ignoring the sky above him, Matthew chose instead to breathe the life of the city. People were all around him—they always were. Heroes, villains, neutrals, civilians, all calling this place home, all drops in the sea of humanity that pressed around him. Everyone seemed to walk with purpose through the crowds, even Matthew.

He wondered how many actually knew what they were doing. Or could convince themselves they did.

He wondered if the number was smaller than he might think. 

Maybe the people were going to work, or returning home, or running an errand. He wondered if anyone really knew who they were in all this, or if many bothered to worry about the things Matthew did. 

Above him, the sky threatened to tumble down on top of them all. But it didn’t. It never did. Maybe it never would. 

Matthew walked through a city park, the people around him smiling at his dog, Matthew sipping his hot chocolate. Only when he was running out of park did Matthew bother to pull out his phone. He’d silenced it, and he hated that his heart sank when there were no notifications from Gilbert. No messages calling him back to his lab, whisking him away on an adventure.

He hadn’t had this amount of fun—or felt like he was really _doing_ something, or really _was_ something—for quite a while, but then there was Gilbert. 

But that was the thing. Was it the villainy? Or was it the man? 

Matthew melted into a park bench, swiping over to his phone contacts. For a long moment his thumb hovered over ‘ _Papa_.’ Then he swiped on, hesitating a second more before tapping a different number. 

* * *

Ludwig walked the long hallways of the prison. His assignment was to the wing for containing supers, meaning he typically dealt with the same faces—supervillains who would be here for the long haul. On one hand, Ludwig supposed he preferred the lack of surprises; it was always the same ones who would cause trouble. 

On the other, there was something that had always struck him as profoundly sad about it. Ludwig supposed he saw his brother in them all—enough egregious violations of the law to fill books. But yet there was nothing satisfying about hiding away a burning flame to see it sputter out. Ludwig supposed also that most heroes didn’t have to see that flame die—they only got the triumph associated with finally getting it under _control_. 

Ludwig saw no real danger in his brother, or in the odd individuals like Kirkland—always talking to his kids, to his spouse, always hatching one convoluted plot or another—though he could also perhaps see why some may. There were reasons—numerous reasons—they were all here, after all. 

His route took him by the high security containment unit—heavy lead doors laden with power dampeners blocking the way to it. As of yet, it housed only one individual, was built to keep only one super… one _being_. It set Ludwig’s hair on end even walking by. Some kept in this facility were here for _very_ good reasons. Some should never escape. 

Others… 

You almost wished the court would allow them just one more chance. 

Ludwig’s walkie-talkie blipped at him. He picked it up. “Officer Beilschmidt.”

“Hey, Ludwig. We’ve got a phone call. For the usual suspect.” 

Ludwig let out a heavy sigh, and went to give the villain his call.

Approaching the cell, Ludwig watched the two supers—if you could call Kirkland and his magic that—immediately perk up. Kirkland had had a cellmate for half a day and already he was planning something with him. Ludwig resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he held out the phone in front of him. “Phone call,” he said, from a safe distance, “It’s your son, Matthew.” 

Kirkland immediately motioned, not-so-subtly, to Łukasiewicz. So his latest plan involved enlisting the assistance of the power-mimic, Ludwig noted, unsurprised. Kirkland took the phone without incident. 

* * *

Alfred had a real bad feeling in his stomach as he pored over the security and phone footage from the Council tower explosion. 

_Disappeared without a trace? After being in front of a crowd of people?_

He fast-forwarded the same video of the villain giving his anti-Council message from every different angle the Commission had access to. Alfred would make a joke about how this guy and Kiku would really get along, about how they must both have stealth powers to pull this off… if he didn’t have such a bad feeling about this. 

One shaky phone video from the side—surrendered by a civilian—at first didn’t appear to be clear enough to be useful… But then something caught his eye. 

He zoomed in. There, where the pant leg had gotten slightly rolled up in the back. He enhanced the frame as best he could. 

A slip of a lacy pink sock, complete with the bow on it. 

Alfred’s stomach dropped. 

_No._

The doorbell rang, Alfred flinching. The door camera feed on his cell phone displayed Kiku’s face smiling up at the camera, an anime DVD in hand. 

Alfred gulped, then cleared the growing lump in his throat enough to tell him to come on up. 

Why? _Why_? Why would Kiku come to _him_ for help if he was a villain? And why would he pretend to be his friend? It couldn’t be. There were about a million different maid costumes at that Comic Con with cutesy socks.

And yet, Alfred knew better than to deny it. 

Kiku wasn’t his friend. He never had been; it was all a lie. Alfred’s composure wobbled before he got himself together. He took a deep breath. He steeled himself. He had to take Kiku in. What he did was super serious. It couldn’t be excused, even if it was an attack on the Council… 

But… 

He didn’t hurt anybody? It was a big middle finger to the Council—Kiku said it himself in the video. Alfred knew heroes who were into that.

What made Kiku so different from the villains who bowed before the Council anyway? 

He couldn't get his head all the way around this. He needed more information. 

There was a knock on Alfred’s door. 

Feeling nothing at all but _noise_ , Alfred moved to let him in. The door opened without any grand reveal behind it. Alfred felt like Kiku should have looked different from this new revelation, but he didn’t. He was just... Kiku. Smiling and saying hi and holding the anime they were supposed to watch together. Everything about him _seemed_ genuine, _seemed_ happy to spend time with him. 

Kiku was already speaking, Alfred forcing himself to tune in. “—My apologies for being late; Yao was being _such_ a pain. He’s always telling me I should get another job at his restaurant—” Kiku paused, scrunching his eyebrows up at Alfred. “Alfred? Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah! I’m fine! Just fine! Let’s do this, dude!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, folks! Also, before anyone mentions it, yes, I am acutely aware that that is not how prison phone calls work. 
> 
> Take care of yourselves, rec a super au to some pals, pet a cute animal, leave some comments & kudos, & I'll see you next week!


	12. Targeting the Target

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the darkness, there is Hope_
> 
> _Hope is an accountant on Fourth St._
> 
> _Those bastards knocked out the power again ___

The next morning, Matthew and Gilbert stood together in Matthew’s apartment, Kumajiro watching happily from the side. Kuma had taken quite the shine to Gilbert, interpreting his loud voice as playtime. The two of them had grabbed coffees from the place down the street—some morning scheming before Matthew had to go to work. Gilbert had brought his whiteboard, propping it up against the wall to write on. 

Gil gestured widely with his iced coffee, caffeinated and having a blast. “Okay, okay, so we’re going to get this fucking raise. But just in case! We want all the good shit on our resume we can get before I give the pitch. So I think what would look sexiest to a bunch of assholes would be something like _these_ —” Gilbert circled several of the ideas in quick succession— “I think focusing on these would be our best bet: not too complicated, not too expensive, still cool as hell.”

Matthew was trying to listen, he really was, but he was distracted. His focus was divided in plenty of directions but none toward any sort of planning. His dad’s words wove in and out of his ears. Gilbert was enjoying himself enough for both of them, though. His haphazard thoughts had morphed into diagrams and interconnected flow charts, a method to his madness, but barely. Gilbert was dressed more casually than Matthew often saw him—ripped jeans, a band t-shirt, an open red zip-up jacket, a black stud in one ear—and _wow_ he made anything look good. Matthew’s heart ached in his throat with about a million stupid things he thought about saying to him. He swallowed them all in sips of his coffee, though—masking words on his tongue with the taste of honey, cinnamon, and espresso. 

Outside the window, the sky still refused to give them the relief of rain, despite how gray it had gotten. They could use the rain, Matthew gave a fleeting thought to, if only to get the sunshine after. Holding the warmth of his coffee close, Matthew watched Gilbert draw a wide arc between two completely unrelated ideas. Gilbert made chaos into art—it was his preferred medium. He was perfect for this. There was a part of Matthew that wished he could feel that way about his job—or any job, really. Matthew picked absently at the label on the cup. His villainy had never been an art. It had never had much of a _goal_ or _spark_ behind it.

Could there be? Would there be? Was it enough to have fun helping Gilbert paint his chaos across the city streets? Of course there was all the stuff with Alfred, the power dampeners, and whatnot—and he was completely on board with that! And it sure felt like something, though he couldn’t quite pin down what... but even that was Gilbert’s idea. Gilbert molding reality into a Jackson Pollock piece. Without Gil fueling all this, what kind of villain would he be? Could he honestly call himself one at all? 

And then there was Gilbert himself in all this. Watching him work, working with him, there was no denying that his ‘art’ had a beauty to it… There also wasn’t any denying that _Gilbert_ had a beauty to him. 

Matthew had called the prison yesterday and gotten his dad on the phone. There was small talk and ‘how are you’s and the little lies that come with that. Matthew didn’t think he was too good at being specific on the whole ‘what this was about’ front. Because what _was_ it about, really? Gilbert? Or something else eating at him? Matthew wasn’t sure even he knew. 

‘ _Um I wanted to talk about… Well, you know I’ve got that new guy I’m doing villainy with, right? I wanted… I wanted to talk about… that.’_ Dad didn’t at all catch on that he—maybe—was talking about the guy. Dad was glad to talk about the villainy, though—more than happy to offer his thoughts and advice, maybe because he was surprised it was being asked for. _‘Well, how did you start out?’_ Matthew had tried. _‘How did you find what you were good at?’_

Dad had had a wandering story—about getting into wizardry, giving his first pitch to Finance, getting approved, getting reprimanded for not being able to cast the spell he’d said he would and using the money anyway, about the long process of honing his magic. And Matthew had listened, but he wasn’t quite getting at what he needed. ‘ _But how did you know that you were—you know—going to be a supervillain? That using your magic and… doing evil with it... was your passion?’_

There had been a pause. _‘Ah, I think I understand now,’_ Dad had said, gentle, and Matthew had felt like he was swallowing his heart there on that park bench. _‘In villainy, you need only to find your niche—that little space you occupy. For me, it was an early fascination with the magical arts, and—well—the darker arts in particular are not especially suitable for heroism, not that it ever tempted me. I had an image in my mind of the sorcerer I wanted to be. I think the question you have to ask of yourself is: what kind of villain—_ person _—would you like to be?’_ Dad had paused again, then, clearing his throat. _‘Matthew, you know we support you regardless of what way you choose in life.’_

“Head in the clouds there, Birdie?” 

Matthew started, not having realized he was completely ignoring Gilbert and watching the dreary sky out the window. He rubbed at his neck, embarrassed. “Sorry.” 

“No worries; I’ve been talking too much anyway.” Gilbert offered him the white board marker. “These plans aren’t just for me.” 

“They’re great, though, really.” 

Gilbert shrugged a shoulder, “Sure. But what is it you want from this, Matthew?” 

It felt like he was seeing that question a lot lately. He brushed it off, trying to think ‘villainy,’ trying to think ‘what’s to be done.’ He was drawing a blank. The only thing that pulled at his brain at all was the thought of his impending work day, so he tried for that: “I mean. Recently, they changed our attendance policy at work and that royally sucks…” Of course, then he remembered. He straightened. “Actually, there’s these new things the CEO thinks we need, apparently. We’re supposed to use these new ‘smart scanners’ that I think are supposed to help with inventory? But it makes every _single_ transaction take about twice as long? Like, clearly whoever designed these things has never worked as a cashier in their life.” 

“YES, Matthew, that’s good! FUCK big bosses!” Gilbert twirled the marker in his hand, right back in the zone. “How can I help you spit in their stupid faces? Would you like to?” The grin on his face and the burning look in his eyes made Matthew think he liked this ‘fuck the bosses’ idea for more than helping Matthew out. Naturally it wasn’t like Gilbert could fight back against _his_ bosses—not if he didn’t have a death wish. But this… It was a bit more plausible. 

And it would certainly be a weight off Matthew’s shoulders to have those stupid things gone. 

Maybe it was the caffeine. Maybe it was the way Gilbert was looking at him with those excited eyes and messy hair. Maybe it was the pent-up frustration with the scanners. Maybe it was some thrill of danger. Whatever it was, it sent a wave of adrenaline jogging through Matthew’s veins. 

He nodded. “Yeah, I think I would.” He stepped forward. “Do you have another marker?” 

So then, beside the tangle of Gilbert’s schemes, Matthew added his own bullet points: break into Target, destroy new scanners, :) cashiers, :( higher-ups. Then, just for the hell of it, he added his hunch: safely take out some energy against Council a-holes. He underlined ‘safely.’

“HELL YEAH, MATTIE.” Gilbert threw an arm over his shoulders, tugging him close as Matthew laughed. “FUCK THEM TOO!” From this close Gilbert smelled like a spritz of cologne and… something else. Not his lab, like usual. Sunscreen? Yeah it was definitely sunscreen, which he supposed made a lot of sense. Honestly it was a combination that was… surprisingly nice. Very Gil. 

The world was warmer under his arm, and Matthew’s heart was back in his throat. 

Gilbert traced arrows out from Matthew’s points, outlining the possibilities of _how_. Of course this then led to branches about the many tools they could bring, each suggestion more fantastical than the last. 

And the two of them were laughing, joking, and Gilbert smelled nice, and the coffee gradually disappeared, and the world was warm, and there were a million stupid things Matthew thought to say. 

Just when he thought he might actually say one, though, Matthew’s alarm had the two of them jolting apart. He scrambled to turn it off. “Work?” Gilbert asked, offering him a wry, crooked grin. 

“Work,” Matthew confirmed with a deep sigh. 

“Want me to ride there with you?” 

“Please,” was out of his mouth before he could filter it. 

Gilbert elbowed him playfully, “Keep you company a bit longer. Scope out those scanners.”

“ _Believe me_ , I’d let you keep me company as long as you want,” Matthew told him, then immediately coughed around how much truth had slipped out in one throwaway sentence. If Gil sensed it, though, he didn’t say anything—only gave another bark of a laugh as he tailed Matthew grabbing his work shirt and heading out the door to his moped. 

They were going to have to save their ‘fuck the bosses’ stunt for tomorrow. Matthew had been at work an hour and already he was tired; plus, he was always exhausted after work anyway. He shoved shopping carts forward, half-wishing Gilbert had stuck around beyond riding with him, grabbing a whole rack of batteries and a lighter from Matthew’s station for one project or another, and jogging for the bus back... half-wishing Gilbert would’ve snagged him up to, steal him away to anywhere but here, riding the bus to the end of the line and going from there. 

His mind felt loud. His talk with his father was still stuck on repeat in his head. 

The villainy he did with Gilbert felt good. It did. Gilbert was a fantastic partner in crime. They made a hell of a team. 

But was ‘fuck the bosses’ really the ‘niche’ he occupied? Dad had his magic and his mischief. Gilbert had his inventions and his chaos. And Matthew… what? He was pissy about his job at a supermarket? Or maybe his brother? It didn’t set right with him. 

He brought his powers to the table, of course, kind of like how Alfred did. It wasn’t that his powers were anything to scoff at—some people would give anything to have what he did. But the thing about Alfred was that he had a lot of _conviction_ to put his powers toward. And the thing about Matthew was that he… kind of didn’t. Or at least he hadn’t found anything like that. Yet? Was that a ‘yet?’ Surely it was something he could find. 

Maybe if there was art for the sake of art, there could be chaos for the sake of chaos, Matthew guessed. It was just that he didn’t exactly _feel_ like a harbinger of disorder. He literally worked at Target. 

Yet, there was Gilbert. And they really _did_ make a great team—‘a match made in Hell’ Gil had once said. That had to count for something. 

_‘But what is it you want from this Matthew?’_

He shoved it out of his head. 

The sky looked like it was ready to rip apart above him. He pushed the shopping carts. It didn’t rain. 

Matthew Williams was one of many, many workers making the daily functions of a Target possible. As in a battle, there were many distinct forces responsible for making this a successful undertaking with as few casualties as possible. In a battle there is, for example: a cavalry, a navy, a force of medics, military strategists. Likewise in a grocery store there are many departments: floral, deli, stocking, management. 

Matthew Williams had found himself on the front lines of this war to satisfy the general populace for three years now—in some ways a mild upgrade from the ongoing tragedy that was fast food service. 

He stuck nobly to his post, smiling at customers, struggling with the cumbersome new scanners, and bagging groceries. 

As hours passed, Matthew and his coworkers were pulled in various directions. As hours passed, customer after customer filtered through the system—most without incident, some intent to create an incident from the moment they set foot in the store. Some customers, like Vasch and Lilly Zwingli—quickly navigating the store with a list and reusable bags in hand—came with a specific mission. Others, like Yao Wang—his boyfriend Ivan Braginsky trailing close behind to give his thoughts on free samples and various sticks of incense—took their time. 

Outside the store, there was the calamitous clash of supervillain and superhero—a gang of supervillains having mistakenly thought their combined power would be enough to go chest-to-chest with Captain Jones. The five villains, well in over their heads and providing more ass than usual for the Captain to kick, made no headway toward their goal of besting the superhero, yet all six superpowered individuals made significant contributions to the damage of public and private property alike.

Inside the store, meanwhile, a customer had decided to yell at Matthew over her expired coupons. 

Matthew dragged his heels into the break room, the clock already ticking away his half-hour lunch break. He pulled open the communal fridge, scanning for his Tupperware of spaghetti. 

His shoulders fell. Someone had stolen it. Again. 

He dragged his heels back out to the store, zipping up a black jacket to conceal his red shirt from customers. He grabbed a shitty microwave meal from the frozen section, acutely aware he was wasting a little over an hour of his life, pay-wise, on it as he rang it up in a self checkout.

He dragged his heels back to the break room, avoiding eye contact with the customers and coworkers alike who were obviously scanning their surroundings for assistance. He set his prize in the communal microwave, blankly watching it rotate. 

The loud crash resounded through the superstore. 

At once the power blinked off, Matthew’s lunch still very much frozen in the microwave. Matthew took a few seconds of staring in the dark to contemplate whether the situation was enough for him to scream in frustration about, but ultimately filed it under the ‘not really’ category. He yawned. 

Matthew stepped out of the windowless break room to where there was marginally more light. He reached out to the first red shirt he found, still stocking cans of soup, just now by the light of his phone. “What was that?”

The guy gave a withering sigh, “Fuckin’ supers hit the electrical box.” 

“Of course they did.” 

“Of course they did,” the stocker agreed, placing another can on a shelf. 

Matthew checked the time. There wasn’t enough left of his lunch break to run home to grab something. 

Defeated, Matthew trudged up to the front of the store and wasted about another half hour of pay on a muffin from the Starbucks before heading outside with it. The benches were all well-populated with employees on breaks, lunches, and awaiting the bus at the end of their shifts. Matthew found a spot for himself among them, peeling the paper from his ‘lunch.’ 

The person next to him was watching the news on her phone without headphones. For a second it was grating on his already-frayed nerves, but then he heard a familiar laugh come from the phone. He glanced over, seeing his brother standing proud among the Great Commission, adoring fans cheering for his attention at the side. 

And he looked happy. That was the thing—Alfred looked so happy. 

The news segment cut from the shot with the Commission to an interview with Alfred alone, where he laughed some more and bragged about an upcoming party bash—proud to announce one of his fellow Commissioners, a name Alfred had been fanboying about since the two of them were kids, would be there. All this was more than a dream come true for Alfred. 

Matthew plucked at his muffin, exhaustion hanging like weights on his entire body. 

A frozen meal abandoned in the microwave, a shitty muffin from Starbucks—an hour and a half of his life. 

He thought about Gilbert, then, and their planning. Gilbert _radiated_ energy. That _was_ his job; that _was_ his life. 

His dad’s words returned: _You only need to find your niche_.

_What do you want, Matthew?_

He grit his teeth, shoving it all down with his shitty, expensive muffin. 

Feeling like a festering wound, Matthew hauled himself from the bench and back into the store. He was greeted with the sight of his coworkers—a vision of the rest of his day—all struggling with those ridiculous new smart scanners. One of them smacked it in frustration. 

And that was enough. 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket as he made his way toward the back of the store to clock back in. “Gilbert? Yeah. Let’s do it. Tonight. I’m sure.” 

  
  


The Farmers’ Market was typically open in the mornings, meaning that Matthew typically never got to go because of his job. It was only open in the evenings one day a week, for the poor unfortunate souls like him. Tired as he was after getting off his shift, Matthew figured he deserved some decent food after a day like that. 

A new hand-painted sign, decorated like the others with images of vegetables and flowers, stood at the front—a very kind warning that the Farmers’ Market was now officially an _enforced_ Neutral zone. Matthew, personally, had no idea what that meant, nor any desire to find out. He’d always had a respect for the Neutrals; he had no doubt they could hold their own. 

Hard-packed earth criss-crossed a neat grid pattern between old wooden booths. There was no shortage of artisans, gardeners, farmers, and craftspeople sitting back and waiting for potential customers to wander through—most of them making friendly conversation with one another. Matthew took a deep breath. It smelled like the produce section at work, but mixed with a thousand other good things: flowers, baked goods, the musk of wood and dirt. It was quieter here, a welcome respite after a shitty day. Matthew kind of wished he had anything to contribute here—the thought of coming _here_ for work didn’t sound half bad—but all he had was a full time job that ran him ragged and bills that wouldn’t have him doing anything different.

Honestly it was no wonder the Neutrals had to stick up for themselves like they did; you really had to fight for rare places like this. 

Matthew picked up some veggies and some fresh bread. The setting sun streamed orange through the buildings of the city, most of the Market already cast in shadow. Some vendors had adorned their booths with twinkle lights. Matthew took his time, walking on aching feet. 

He was staring down some cheeses, considering grabbing a little extra to bring to Papa but weighing the costs, when the seller spoke up: “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Captain Jones?”

Matthew snapped his head up, blinking at a face he knew. The founder and president of the Neutral Alliance tilted his head at him, arms crossed. “I don’t get it as often as you’d think, actually,” Matthew squeaked. 

Vasch Zwingli had started making headlines when Matthew was in his later teens. Matthew distinctly remembered nobody taking him and his ‘Neutrals’ seriously… until they did. 

Vasch Zwingli shrugged evenly, “I almost told you to get the hell out of this market, but,” Vasch looked him up and down, “I don’t recall Captain Jones working at Target.” Matthew shifted on his feet, indeed looking like he was cosplaying a stop sign. Vasch sat back in his chair, watching Matthew with curiosity. “He doesn’t like us, you know. Neutrals.” 

Lots of people didn’t, honestly. Surprisingly, being ‘Neutral’ wasn’t exactly a _neutral_ decision to make. Matthew could recall at least one front page with Vasch’s face on it reading ‘ _Are all revolutionaries this cranky?_ ’ Alfred’s problem with the Neutrals wasn’t Vasch’s attitude, though; his deal was more along the lines of ‘if you have powers, why would you choose NOT to use them for heroics?’ 

Matthew laughed nervously, “I mean, he doesn’t like villains much either.” Something fluttered like a hot coal inside of him, an ounce of courage riding on that spark of defiance. “Take it from me; I’m one and I’m his brother.” 

Vasch absorbed this information without changing expression. “I didn’t know Jones had a brother.”

“He doesn’t like to talk about it much.” 

Vasch grunted. “I wish you the best of luck with that—” Vasch’s eyes flicked downward “—Matthew.” Matthew blushed, realizing he was still wearing his nametag. Vasch laced his fingers on his booth, still looking at him like he was mulling something over, crunching some numbers. “I don’t care who your family is. Know you’re welcome here, so long as you’re not an asshole.” 

Matthew nodded, looking quickly away.

“Are you going to buy cheese or not?” 

Matthew fumbled to grab a block and his wallet at the same time. Matthew offered him some cash; Vasch took it and gave him his change. “Take two.”

“—I? What—?”

“I _said_ take two blocks. You work at Target.” 

Shyly, Matthew obeyed and slipped two hunks of cheese into his bag. He had just opened his mouth to thank him when some yelling started up near the bounds of the Market. The yelling was followed closely by a large rippling _shockwave_ , sending apples sailing into the air. 

Zwingli was on his feet in an instant, baring his teeth. “Should I talk to them, Vasch?” the tulip vendor across the aisle mused. 

“I’ve got it,” Vasch growled. Matthew’s eyes went wide as the cheese salesman hefted a large gun out from beneath his booth. “HEY. ASSHOLES.” 

* * *

Kiku jolted awake in his office to the vibrating of his phone. Disoriented, he peeled himself off his desk to sit upright, a paper sticking to his cheek. He pulled it off and adjusted his crooked reading glasses, blinking in the light of his desk lamp. He squinted at the text message from Yao that had woken him up, internally cringing to see how late it was. 

‘ _So i’m guessing you found other sleeping arrangements’_ read the text, ‘ _But if u’re just @ ur office u might want to find something. Ivan & i are busy _.’ Yao helpfully punctuated this with the winking emoji with its tongue out. 

He let out a deep sigh, texting him back that he was heading home. 

Kiku’s phone buzzed with Yao’s reply after a moment: ‘ _You OWE me for going along w this latest plan of yours.’_

Kiku chewed his cheek for a minute. He did really need Yao on his side for this one… 

He texted Alfred.

* * *

The Canadian Menace and the Silver Panic entered the Target parking lot under the cover of night. The Silver Panic was vibrating with his excitement, practically bouncing in his heavy steel-toed boots as he gripped his baseball bat—one of the more classical instruments of supervillainy—tightly in his gloves. 

The Menace had the honors of wielding a laser beam, a novelty the Silver Panic had designed by modifying an already-high-powered laser he bought on Ebay to make it much more effective for villainy, i.e. more concentrated in power and more dangerous in aesthetics. To illustrate this fact, the Canadian Menace held the laser in two hands, pointed it at the main double doors of the establishment, and pressed hard on the trigger. 

Gilbert watched with a mixture of pride and painfully apparent attraction as Matthew ground his teeth in a snarl, carving his way into the superstore with a device of his making, wreathed by the red-orange glow and strong stench of melting metal. 

It took little laser-ing for the doors to be sufficiently damaged to be pried open by two pairs of gloved hands. 

Matthew stormed inside, heading straight for the first checkout line there was, ripping its new smart scanner from its blinking charging station. 

It took little laser-ing to reduce the thing to a charred crater in the tile floor. 

Meanwhile, Gilbert took his bat to the register itself. “You’re not going to get into it like that; it’s reinforced,” Matthew made sure he knew as he went methodically down the line of registers. “I’d open it for you with my code, but then they’d know it was me.” He smiled sweetly over at his partner as he pulled the trigger again, a black strip of cloth covering his upper face much like the Lone Ranger, a pair of Gilbert’s dark welding goggles protecting his eyes.

Gilbert, admittedly, went a little weak in the knees. 

The two were a rather incongruous pair. The Silver Panic was in all black and—well—silver. He had taken it upon himself this night in particular to deck his upper arms and shoulders with as many polished spikes as possible, sparkling a disco ball pattern onto the floor under the grimy Target lights. The Canadian Menace, on the other hand, was more one for charcoals and purples—he was seen most often, this night included, in an old military parka with empty bandoleers crossing an X over his chest. The long coat had once been a tawny color, dyed black toward the start of Matthew’s villainy, and now held a more ashy shade after many washes. It fit well the theme of ‘Canadian,’ if one happened to be familiar with winter-climate military uniforms. Whether it fit the theme of ‘Menace’ was more debatable, in the opinion of many, though this was harder to argue when the Menace was enthusiastically wielding a laser capable of melting doors. 

The Silver Panic was still concerned with what he could bash like a piñata, and picked at random the receipt dispenser as the lucky recipient of his bat. He hoped the Council had stock in this particular Target. The idea made him want to take every cent in the register even more. 

Or maybe a nice week’s worth of dinners from the freezers. 

Matthew would probably second him on that one, Gilbert would bet Target’s money on. The laser beam went off again, from about halfway down the row of registers. _After_ Matthew was done having his fun, of course. Gilbert wondered vaguely how much of the cash would be salvageable if they took the laser to these things. He gave a glance over at the door, sparking and melting. Probably not a lot, he concluded.

Matthew Williams, the Canadian Menace, was feeling a sense of catharsis. He was feeling a sense of accomplishment. He was feeling a sense of relief. A laser in hand, he idly dreamed of the fresh lavender he’d gotten from the Farmers’ Market, and of the tea he could make with it when he got home. He wondered if Gilbert liked tea much. The monster the large grocery chain had created quietly continued his rampage, growing increasingly content with himself as he gradually eliminated at least one issue from his workspace. He considered what other issues a laser could fix for him and his coworkers. 

Inspired, Matthew looked up to the ceiling, where the incessantly flickering fluorescent light was doing what it did best. His managers said it couldn’t be replaced until it died, for one reason or another. Matthew, equipped with flight and a weapon of light destruction, was now more than capable of taking matters into his own hands. 

Gilbert cackled as he watched his companion float to the ceiling and blast out one of the lights, sparks and particles of glass raining down. “I thought this place could use some remodeling too.” 

Matthew shrugged evenly as he eased himself back to the ground, looking to Gilbert very much like some romance novel's dark angel in the moment. “I offered to change the light. They told me no.” 

Gilbert snorted. “Fair enough.” The supervillain looked around himself at the carnage, questioning then if Matthew would be the one who swept it all up the next morning. He figured he could have taken it slightly easier on the receipt machine. However, past actions aside, a certain feeling caused him to believe their time would be soon drawing to a close. This feeling was seeing a couple police cars pull into the parking lot with their lights on. “Um, Birdie, we may want to wrap this up pretty fast.”

Matthew nodded, dazed, “Frozen section first?” 

The Silver Panic’s heart swelled with affection. “You know me so well.” 

* * *

Kiku was still apologizing profusely for the inconvenience as Alfred let him in. “Really, I cannot thank you enough. I swear, my brother isn’t usually like this. I’m also trying to get my own place as soon as possible; it’s just that it’s not currently feasible given my circumstances—” 

“—It’s all good, dude. Don’t worry about it,” Alfred told him, but it sounded short and clipped. Kiku internally winced; he must have woken him up. And when his job already kept him up at odd hours. 

Another ten apologies immediately leapt to his tongue, but he didn’t want to push the subject. Instead, Kiku nodded and offered another quiet thank you as he relegated himself to the couch. 

Still with an unfortunate amount of grading to get done since he had fallen asleep, Kiku pulled a small stack of papers from his bag. Alfred lightly surprised him by taking up a seat on the opposite end of the couch. “You don’t have to stay awake on my account,” he was quick to excuse. 

“It’s all good. What… are you working on there…?” 

“Just some more grading; I, ah, wasn’t finished when I fell asleep at my desk.” 

“What’s the assignment?”

Kiku turned the ungraded paper in his hands toward him. “My students were to write a couple paragraphs on the motives of supers in choosing roles as villains, heroes, or neutrals.”

Alfred nodded. “And what are the motivations for heroes to become heroes, would you say?”

Kiku smiled to himself. “Well, Alfred, there are many reasons people may become heroes. For example, some see a higher moral purpose in themselves, wanting to protect that which they view as worth protecting, or stop what they think needs to be stopped. This often involves personal notions of what constitutes societal order—crime and punishment, peace and justice. Some become heroes because they believe it makes them morally justified no matter their actions, and crave the positive feedback loop and limelight that comes with that.” Kiku looked up from the paper to Alfred, who was watching him intently. Alfred was quick to break eye contact. “Would you add anything, or disagree with that?”

Alfred cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’d say a hero’s a hero because they want to help people.” He shrugged. “Simple as that.” He said it with tense conviction. “And a hero’s a hero not because they’re ‘good’ or even because they think they are—a hero’s a hero because they _try_ to do the right thing.” 

Kiku smiled down at his work. “You’re such an idealist.”

“It’s one of my better traits.”

There was a pause between them, then. Silence save for the scratch of Kiku’s grading pen. Kiku was acutely aware of the fast beating of his heart in his chest, aware of the hero on the couch with him, _more_ than aware of how he silently wished Alfred might come a little closer. But there they were—staying up together, having conversations intimately about themselves without ever saying a word about themselves, the whole length of the couch in between them. 

Kiku was very aware, also, of how his writing hand itched to reach for him, to soothe away the furrow between his eyebrows, ease the tension in his posture. He paused to flex his fingers. Perhaps both of them were too tired for this. 

“What about the motivations of villains?” 

Kiku carefully composed his face even as fresh adrenaline shot through his veins. “Well... villains also have a variety of reasons behind their work.” He cleared his throat. “Some find villainy more appealing than heroism because of the action behind it, or the optics particular to villains that are less fitting for heroes—heroes _and_ villains crave the spotlight and recognition that comes with their work, albeit in different forms. Some villains have a certain disdain for heroism, or the ways of city and society, and as such work toward becoming the downfall of these things. Heroes and villains are quite similar in that way; the difference being that heroes see the city plagued with villains, not the other way around.” Kiku met Alfred’s eyes, the blue in them dark in the low-light, “Also, while heroes tend to uphold specific orders and status quos, a villain is free to burn the system where it stands—especially a villain with powers particularly suited to, ah, more _unorthodox_ methods of doing so. The decision to be a villain, then,” he said, “is freeing.” 

The two of them watched each other for a moment. 

“Would you add anything?” Kiku asked quietly, “Or disagree?”

“I think,” Alfred said, “You make a lot of comparisons between heroes and villains.”

Kiku shrugged. “Many motivations are similar. Glory. Power. To meld the world into something you’d like to see.” 

“A good hero isn’t looking for glory or power.” 

“You’ll find the distinction is hard to make.”

Alfred coughed, indignant, “But isn’t it your _job_ to make overcomplicated distinctions?”

Kiku shrugged, “I’m a researcher, Alfred. My job is merely to analyze the patterns that are present.”

Alfred pouted some more, but there was still a great amount of tension in his body language. A _what’s wrong?_ was poised on the tip of his tongue, but it died as Alfred stood. “I’m distracting you from your grading.” Al gave him a smile, but it looked forced, “I’ll go get you a pillow and blanket.” 

“Thank you,” Kiku said to Alfred’s back. 

Kiku watched him go, troubled. Was it that Alfred was tired? Was it what Kiku said? He was acting a little strange when he arrived, though, wasn’t he? 

His phone buzzing once more caught his attention. He squinted at the unknown number, then scanned the message. His stomach leapt. Someone was responding to the ‘supers wanted’ call he’d put out for his latest plan. That made four people now, plus Yao. 

He immediately stowed and locked the phone as Alfred re-entered the room. 

“Here’s this,” Alfred offered him the bedding, “Oh, and uh,” he looked away bashfully, “I know we’re not remotely the same size or anything, but, uh… I mean, I know I can’t sleep in jeans. So here’s a t-shirt and some sweats, y’know, if you want ‘em.” 

Kiku took it all from Alfred’s hands, catching the hero’s wrist as he did to bring those blue eyes to his. “Alfred,” he said, “Thank you.” He released him, the warmth of his skin burning against Kiku’s palm. “You know you can talk to me, don’t you? If something is bothering you?” Kiku swallowed thickly as Alfred again averted his eyes. “We _are_ friends.” 

“I’m just tired,” Alfred weakly excused. “But… Thanks, Kiks.” 


	13. Money Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Money is the root of all evil,_
> 
> _Which is why capitalists make such effective supervillains_
> 
> _And also why they’re the shittiest kind out there ___

The next morning, Matthew stood in front of the store manager as he was handed a pink slip. 

On the desk, security camera footage of him and Gilbert played on a loop. 

“Look, we’re not going to press charges—we _all_ hated those things—but you really have to go, Mr. Williams. I’m very sorry.” The manager stowed the video as Matthew stared down at the paper in his hands, feeling absolutely nothing at all. His fingers still shook. “Do be more careful; such _specific_ vandalism could only be done by an employee and, Mr. Williams, you are— were —our only employee who has the ability to fly. And it is my understanding that The Canadian Menace has an arrest warrant out for him.” The manager looked him in the eye. “It is a good thing we here at Target were unable to link your vandalism with such a supervillain, or else charges _would_ have to be pressed, wouldn’t they?” 

Matthew swallowed. “Thank you, sir.” 

“Don’t thank me. Get out of my store.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Walking like he was in a dream, Matthew maneuvered through the aisles, away from the eyes of his coworkers, and crossed the threshold into the parking lot. Above him, the sky was a bruised purple.

* * *

Gilbert finished his presentation with arms spread wide, coat sweeping around him. 

The representatives from Finance exchanged looks, murmuring for a bit among themselves. Gilbert wasn’t sure how long he should hold his pose. One of the representatives opened his file and did some pointing. The speaker did some nodding. 

The speaker stood. “Silver Panic. Thank you for your presentation. It was very engaging. It seems you’ve been working very hard lately with that partner of yours. That being said, we cannot give you the bond you’re asking for. We here at the Finance Department suggest you keep up the good work, maybe do some refining with this plan of yours—”

The words struck like a blow, nearly winding him. “—Wait, wait wait," Gilbert gasped out, "but there _is_ more to our plan!” 

The speaker crossed his arms, unimpressed at being interrupted. 

Gilbert felt the sweat collecting under his collar. “We are going to use this technology to take away the super abilities of _The_ Captain Jones.” He let the assuredness in his tone echo through the quiet room. 

As one, the finance reps burst into laughter. Bent over with cackles as Gilbert stood tall, the speaker waved him away. “As if every money-hungry, low-life LEECH isn’t swearing up and down they can take Jones out. Panic, in case you haven’t noticed, if _anyone’s_ going to do it, it is highly unlikely to be you.” Pulling himself together slightly as Gilbert ground his teeth, the speaker held up placating hands, “Look, Panic, you’ve been doing pretty well with your new partner. Looking at all you’ve accomplished, it’s not bad! Hell, some of it is even good! But you’re not _great_ , Panic. And only great villains get the big sponsorships. You can expect your usual allowance. But don’t embarrass yourself, Silver.” 

  
  


Gilbert Beilschmidt took the bus home from his presentation, Matthew Williams rode his scooter from his former workplace, and Kiku Honda woke up on the couch in a hero’s penthouse to the sound of four separate supers trying to get a hold of him.

As Kiku tended to the barrage of questions about the specifics of the day’s particularly gutsy scheme, Alfred F. Jones woke from a restless sleep to the shuffling of papers in his living room—the sound of a _villain_ in his living room… the sound of a friend, in his living room. The hero was instantly catapulted back into a tempest of conflicted feelings. He’d told himself he needed some more data. He’d told himself he needed to figure out what Kiku wanted—what made Kiku different from other villains. 

The hero had also told himself he needed to make sure it was Kiku, as if the compiled evidence he already had somehow wasn’t enough. Of course, searching was harder without a ‘villain name’ to use… but the M.O. wasn’t hard to trace: short suspect in black, powers to conceal the self, a thing against the Council. And that fit the description of the villain who had burned that building at _Kiku’s_ university to a T. 

And yet… here he was, still agonizing about what to do with the villain in his living room, despite the fact he knew… 

It shouldn’t have been a hard decision, Alfred chided himself. He was on the Commission! He’d taken an oath!

But it was so fucking weird to hear Kiku talk about villainy, like it was something half-noble. Like it was something at all comparable to herowork. Like there was any _sense_ behind it. Plus it wasn’t like Kiku _didn’t_ have a point about how awful the Council was, Alfred told himself. The Commission had been trying to nail ‘em down for decades, trying to catch them in all their egregious illegal bullshit, trying to find reason through the proper channels to get their tower shut down, then here came Kiku waltzing in and showing ‘em who’s boss like it was no trouble at all. 

Alfred just… had to know more. Then, he’d… do something. He didn’t know what. Tip off the police chief? The thought made him cringe, but the idea of taking in Kiku himself was worse. But he’d have to do _something_. You can’t just let people get away with that kind of thing, even if no one got hurt. Kiku was lucky no one had gotten hurt; ‘planned that way’ didn’t mean anything—plans went wrong all the time. 

The villain in Alfred’s living room, meanwhile, was busy doing more planning as he organized his students’ papers. 

Alfred braved getting up to face him, startling Kiku as he opened the door to his bedroom. Kiku stood up straight, maintaining a certain dignity about him as if he were not utterly dwarfed by Alfred’s night clothes, and as if his eyes hadn’t gone directly to the shirtless hero’s well-defined chest, and as if his face was not a stark shade of red for both of these reasons. 

Likewise Alfred hoped his own expression was more guarded than he felt seeing Kiku in his clothes like that, was more guarded than his first thought which was: ‘ _Aw shit, he’s cute_.’

Both hero and villain cleared their throats, navigating this space around each like a chess game both were unaware the other was also playing. 

“Good morning.” 

“Morning.” 

The two stared at each other. 

“I was just getting ready to leave.” 

“Oh, that’s cool. Uh. Want some coffee?” 

“I’m alright, but thank you.” 

Their gazes lingered a moment more, heart rates accelerated. Alfred crossed the room to busy himself with putting on a pot of coffee for himself. Kiku did his best to focus on getting his papers in order, an internal monologue begging him not to look at Alfred in his sweatpants as he passed. This internal monologue was unsuccessful. Kiku learned Alfred’s sweatpants fit him much better than they fit Kiku. Faces turned away from the other, finding excuses to look anywhere else, to focus anywhere but the sources of tension between them, hero and villain alike swallowed hard against countless things unexpressed. 

Across the city, far removed from any situation the likes of which his brother found himself in, Matthew collapsed onto his apartment couch. His dog, overjoyed to see his human home earlier than usual, was quick to sprawl out across him, licking his face while the supervillain stared despondent up at the ceiling. 

Across the city, hurt and angry, Gilbert slammed the door to his department, making a rude gesture toward the pile of bills on his kitchen table, and descending to his lab with coat flapping behind him. 

With fists clenched looking at all of his unfinished projects, all of his blueprints, all of his plans, all of his ideas, Gilbert thought for a moment about destroying it all. His eyes wandered to the case containing his incineration ray. The blaze of fury was short lived, though, all at once shriveling inside him and crumbling away with the bravado. Try as he did to shield himself with it, it was exhausting to keep up. 

Tired and wounded, Gilbert fell into his desk chair, gazing out over his lab and its many projects with their many potentials. But that was the thing about having potential; it wasn’t yet reality. It was a possibility, not a promise. It took a lot to transform a threat into a promise.

He reached over to the birdcage to scratch his bird’s head with a finger.

He would have to tell Matthew, it occurred to him. Shame and frustration flooded through him as he raked a hand through his hair. The itch to do more, something, anything overtook him. In his mind, he had a lot to prove—to prove himself, to prove _to_ himself, to prove to everybody else. 

Gilbert Beilschmidt sat alone in his lab, surrounded by potential of his own making. He let his head fall back against his chair, squeezing his eyes closed, because he knew it was going to take someone _great_ to make anything of it.

* * *

Kiku sat in the back of one of Yao’s catering vans in full villain attire, accompanied by three new supers for his latest plan. Yao himself drove, all of them concealed by tinted windows and masks. 

_Well_ , concealed by masks save for one of the new additions, who had chosen a t-shirt and cargo shorts for this. It was his funeral, Kiku supposed. 

They rode together in silence, adrenaline thrumming steadily through Kiku’s veins. For the duration of the plan, they were business partners; this was not the arena for making acquaintances. Kiku understood the abilities of his partners, but all other details remained concealed. They knew who he was, they knew what they were doing, they knew how they would benefit at the end should this be successful, and they knew all connection between them would cease after the job's conclusion. 

“So I’m Kyle!” was projected to them in a distinctly Australian accent. The unmasked super turned to hang over the back of his seat, waving to them all. 

“Hi Kyle!” one of the others was quick to pipe up, removing his metal helmet to reveal wildly spiked blond hair and a bright smile. “You all can call me Dane! It’s good to meet you!” 

Kiku sighed internally, quietly relinquishing his ideas of anonymity. 

‘Dane’ turned to Kiku, then, sticking a hand out at him. “I’ve seen you on the TV! I’ll admit! I was a little unsure about teaming up with villains! But I’m glad to know we have so much in common!” 

Hesitantly, Kiku shook Dane’s hand. “Thank you for coming—”

“—Wait…” Kyle interjected. “You guys are villains?” 

Kiku met Yao’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Yes,” Kiku said, his voice modulator helping to emphasize this point. 

“I guess that makes sense,” Kyle said, a sentiment with which Kiku would have to agree, given the job description Kiku had given and Kyle had agreed to. Kyle gave all of them another grin and a thumbs-up. “I’m a hero myself.” 

“Hey! Me too!” Dane exclaimed, quick to offer Kyle a fistbump. 

Kiku again met Yao’s eyes in the mirror. Yao shrugged a shoulder. _Sure, why not?_

“What about you, mate?” Kyle called, apparently not wanting the one remaining super minding his own business in a ski mask in the corner of the van to feel left out. 

In a gruff Dutch accent, he offered only: “Neutral.” 

Two villains, two heroes, and a Neutral. Kiku supposed he could work with that. 

After all, the only trait perfectly necessary to rob a bank was a willingness to do so. 

Avarice Financial was the bank of the High Council, essentially another puppet facade of the Council. Kiku assumed control of a physical financial institution eased the many processes involved with keeping tabs on accounts, loans, grants, and money laundering. Many supervillains were more than happy to use it for their own financial matters too, given the extremely limited number of questions asked regarding suspicious activity. 

It was an odd osmosis of money—villains depositing earnings from the Council, only for banks to do what banks did and for that money to flow directly back into the resources the Council had its disposal for other transactions. As with any other bank, most of that money was typically in use _somewhere_ in the City with a certain amount left on hand at the bank. So long as all that money wasn't asked for at once, it was business as usual for the Council and its poisonous network. 

What an interesting situation it would be, then, since Kiku had no intention at all of asking. 

And Avarice Financial had the beautiful benefit of having a far larger lump sum physically present than a normal bank—your typical idea of a loan not being precisely the best tool to wield for criminal undertakings; _that_ end of business was utilized far more effectively by the Council’s claws in the university’s finances. 

Yao discreetly parked the van down the street from the bank.

They were certainly an interesting collection as they stepped out the back of Yao’s vehicle together. Dane had resituated his metal helmet on his head, hefting his heavy battle ax at his side, looking something like a Norse warrior. The unnamed Dutch Neutral appeared a more classical form of bank robber in his ski mask and all black. Kiku’s dark cape floated soundlessly behind him, his outfit immediately recognizable to the general populace now; they knew what he stood for. Yao strutted tall at his side, having long ago decided a catsuit was most conducive to his most public appearances, a new black and red one unveiled for this occasion. Then there was Kyle, in cargo shorts. 

Looking at the looming, darkly elegant structure of the bank, Kiku would take all the assistance he could get. The five of them walked up the black stone stairs in a line, Dane stepping ahead as the two enchanted snake statues mirroring the ones guarding the Council’s tower hissed and blocked their entrance. 

Dane threw a look over his shoulder at them, the parts of his face not covered by shining metal—the eyes and mouth area—were concealed behind a hard, dark material, yet his frown was still palpable. “Guys! I said _twenty feet_ away!” Yao took the liberty of pulling Kyle back by his shirt. “Thank you! Also, this might be very loud!” he warned. With that, Dane lifted his ax skyward. Kiku watched in fascination as dark clouds immediately converged above him as if drawn to a magnet, and then all at once the air felt and smelled _wrong_. Kiku had the sense to cover his ears as an enormous bolt of lightning struck the hero. Dane stood tall, wreathed in a web of arcing blue electricity, a wide grin illuminated behind his face covering. 

He pointed his ax at the snake statues, and at once they exploded in a massive directed surge of energy.

 _Oh, yes_. 

Kiku surged forward, the Neutral close at his side, the man’s hands calmly in his pockets. The few seedy patrons of the bank stared wide-eyed at the intruders, their gazes fixed on the Neutral, only because their eyes glazed naturally over Kiku. That was best for now. 

The Neutral met their stares evenly, clearing his throat and raising his voice: “Please, remain calm,” he advised them all. Instantly, Kiku’s muscles relaxed, his heart rate easing. The Neutral gave him a look, squinting to look at him straight-on through Kiku’s powers, “I wasn’t talking to you.” Kiku caught his breath, breaking out of it. Slightly unnerved by his companion’s uncanny ability to persuade, but now _quite_ convinced of its potency, Kiku followed him to the bank tellers who sneered from behind bulletproof glass lined with power dampeners. Kiku had chosen his companions carefully; power dampeners required direct contact with a super to be effective against them. Dampeners would do nothing against the Neutral's voice or Dane's lightning. Adding Kiku's stealth, Yao's elasticity, and Kyle's speed to the equation made for odds Kiku could be quite comfortable with. “Excuse me,” the Neutral said to the tellers, “Would you show my friends and I to the vault?” 

Three out of four pointed to a door behind them; one helpfully moved to let them inside. 

Kiku’s heart sang within his chest as the group followed close behind their still-sneering guide. They walked in pairs: Kiku stepping beside his brother, the heroes bunched behind the two of them, and the guide and Neutral in the lead. He held his breath as the teller used an ID card and thumbprint to lead the group through one point of security after another. Unhappy automated voices and warning lights chirped at them for sensing 'unregistered personnel' in the area, but no one stood in their way, and they pushed deeper into the building. The vault had to be heavily guarded; a dragon's hoard was not going to be easily stolen away. 

There was also, it occurred to Kiku then, a decent chance that the Council had cut corners on hiring superpowered guards in order to save a penny or two more. After all, in what world would these security measures not be enough, and who would possibly have the _audacity_ to rob the High Council of Supervillainy themselves? 

“Nice ax, mate.” Everyone, including the dazed teller, turned to assure they’d heard that right. “ _Ax_ ,” Kyle articulated for them all, pointing to Dane’s. 

Dane beamed. “Thanks! It’s a great conductor.”

“Is it actually sharp?” 

Dane ripped the ax away from Kyle’s reaching hand. “Oh, please don’t touch it actually! Or me! Y’know how when you rub your socks on the carpet you can shock someone? I didn’t completely de-charge on the statues, so it would be like happening except much more painful and dangerous!” 

“Sweet.” 

“It is pretty cool!” Dane agreed. “But no touching.”

“I guess.” From the tone of his voice, Kiku wouldn’t say Kyle had been completely deterred from finding a way to touch the ax. 

“Oh and it isn’t sharp either.” 

Kyle made an indignant noise in his throat. “Well what’s fucking the _point_ then?!” 

“I told you! It’s a great conductor!”

“Why doesn’t—” the Neutral put in, turning— “One of you tend to the situation outside and make sure we don’t receive any unwanted company.” 

The heroes looked at him wide-eyed, then at each other. Both realized at once that they weren’t being compelled to do anything. Kyle straightened, jabbing a thumb toward his chest. “I think I’m just the sucker for that job!” He turned his grin on Kiku for confirmation: “Whattaya say? Are we making that one an order, cap’n?” 

Kiku blinked back at him. “Yes,” he decided. “Please." Hero or police interference wasn't something he was expecting with this job, but it wasn't something he could rule out. It was the Council getting wind of this before they were out that worried Kiku. Giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up, Kyle knelt to adjust the strap on the heel of his green rubber clogs before bolting. He'd disappeared in an instant—faster than Kiku's eye could trace. If any of them could make for an effective diversion, Kiku was certain it would be him. He took a breath, continuing forward. 

He nearly bumped into the Neutral, who'd come to a stop before yet another heavy door. The teller pointed to it. "Vault is that way. My clearance can't get you any further."

"Don't worry, guys, I've got it!" Dane piped up. "I'll need some space, though!" 

They parted as one to let him to the door, careful not to touch him. Dane watched to make sure they'd all backed far enough away—a small reminder of his heroism. Something about it—the natural attentiveness in such a bubbling personality—nudged at something in Kiku's mind. He was quick to put the thought to rest. The job needed all his focus. 

Dane swung his ax up over his head—electricity ringing and sparking around it—and brought it down. The lightning went off like a gunshot, so bright in the close quarters Kiku had to avert his eyes. When he looked back, though, the door was hanging off its hinges, smoking lightly. Dane gestured proudly to his work. "After you!" 

Kiku gave him a nod, swallowing as his heart beat even faster in his chest than before. He took the lead, inky black cape trailing behind him. "Let's do this."

* * *

Alfred danced around his kitchen in his sweats with his brunchtime bowl of cereal as the news played in the living room. 

They’d been talking about him for a little while now—Commission stuff still the talk of the town, apparently. 

But then, the broadcast abruptly switched to live breaking news. Alfred slid into the living area on his socks to see what was up. He gulped down a mouthful of cereal to read the headline: _BANK HEIST_. He moved to book it for his super suit, but then stopped as the reporter on the scene said something that made this _very_ interesting: It was Avarice Financial. That was the supervillain bank. 

Alfred was still busy trying to make that compute when some dude walked right up to the reporter. There was a brief exchange between the two of them. Confused, the reporter turned back to the audience. _“This just in: there are claims that heroes are ALREADY on the scene… this man claiming to be one of them_.” The dude stood there with a big smile, a t-shirt, cargo shorts, rocking some Crocs, and gave the camera a double thumbs-up. 

Alfred’s phone rang. The head of the Commission. He picked it up. “ _Captain… are you seeing this?_ ”

“Yeah. Do you think I should... do something?”

“Captain, I honestly have no idea.” 

Alfred chewed his cereal, watching all of this unfold uneasily. He didn’t _see_ any other heroes working on putting a stop to this, but Crocs dude had gotten a hold of the mic now, spouting reassurances left and right. 

It was just that literally none of what Crocs had to say lined up with what he’d said moments before, his accounts of what was going on varying widely. “What _is_ this?” Alfred expressed aloud to his boss. 

Then, live on TV, the doors to the bank burst open—a dark figure stepping forward. 

A _familiar_ figure.

Alfred dropped his bowl. 

“Hey,” he said into the phone, “I gotta… go…” 

* * *

Kiku arrived on the doorstep of his own bank in a button-up and tie. He’d called ahead, and maneuvered swiftly to his usual contact’s office. She smiled brightly as he stepped into her office. “Mr. Honda! How can we help you today?”

Kiku set his briefcase on her desk, clicking it open for her to see. Her smile faded, eyes wide at the large bundles of cash inside. “I’m here about my student loans, actually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarity's sake: Kyle is Australia, 'Dane' (Matthias) is Denmark, and the Neutral is Netherlands.
> 
> Unfortunately, while I'll try, I'm not certain I can maintain a regular updating schedule after this point. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, though! As always: take care of yourselves & others, drop some comments or kudos, & you can always find me on Tumblr under the same username as here :)


	14. A Dire Need for Evil Hugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Villains should get more credit._
> 
> _Who else is going to be up front that they wish you harm?_

Channels 4 and 5 hosted a couple local news stations. Channel 4 streamed a live feed featuring half of the High Council of Supervillainy sitting among a smattering of their villainous lawyers, a banner along the bottom of the screen informing viewers just tuning in that the High Council had chosen to push a lawsuit against the Great Commission. _“—I’m just saying, Commissioner,”_ one of the lawyers addressed the bundle of superheroes and their lawyers on the opposite side of the room, “ _There were no heroes who stopped the robbery. In fact, it is my understanding there were heroes INVOLVED in the robbery. It is for these reasons that we’re saying the Great Commission of Heroes should pay reparations for our losses—_ ”

If a channel surfer were to bore of drama that will ultimately amount to nothing and flip back to Channel 3, there was a talk show where a popular civilian was having her studio audience review a viral clip from some villains who’d filmed themselves egging one of the Executive’s sleek black cars. _“WE STAND WITH THE BANE OF THE COUNCIL! HE’S RIGHT! THE COUNCIL IS ONLY HOLDING US BACK FROM OUR TRUE POTENTIAL!”_ Their bold statement was cut short by a couple of the Council’s goons appearing to put an end to the insubordination. The clip cut off there as well, the rest of the video not particularly suitable for general audiences. The camera zoomed in on the talk show host’s face—a serene smile. “ _We sure live in interesting times. Join us after the break where we ask YOU, our audience: But were they right?_ ”

Though, because talk shows don’t appeal to everyone, if one were to wonder what the Executive was up to in the midst of this, further browsing over to Channel 13 would find the evildoer himself with fingers laced on his desk, being filmed by his publicity team. _“The media may be calling him the ‘bane of the Council,’ but I can assure you of this: we will not be going anywhere. And we will continue to stamp out fleas who may be getting any ideas from this nonsense with extreme prejudice. If the pest in question happens to be watching, know this: you cannot elude us forever.’_ This was of course followed by an advertisement for macaroni and cheese. 

Naturally, since few actually want to watch commercial breaks, the remaining members of the High Council could be found on Channel 5 being swarmed by reporters all talking over each other to get their questions in as the supervillains worked their way down the stairs of their infamous bank. “ _Councilmember! Are you willing to take a cut to your own salary to make up for the loss? You know, since you’re supporting the livelihoods of so many villains.”_

The Councilmember leaned close to the mic, “ _No._ ” 

Another Councilmember laughed nervously, quickly shoving the other aside, “ _What my colleague means is: that will not be necessary because we will implement other plans to make up for this unfortunate occurrence.”_ He smiled sweetly for the cameras.

It wasn’t a day after the Councilmembers mentioned having such ‘other plans’ that Gilbert Beilschmidt received a call, interrupting an Excel budgeting session with his bills folded next to him, to inform him that his wages would be cut. 

Shortly thereafter, Matthew received the very same call while he was scrolling sadly through online ‘Help Wanted’ ads, job applications spread out in front of him, all the shutters closed. 

Gilbert grabbed a jacket, calling his brother as he walked out the door. 

Matthew rose to take Kumajiro for a walk. The sky was the color of charcoal, but it didn’t rain. It didn't storm. Nothing. It needed to. Surely it had to be on the precipice of… something. Maybe it had yet to reach that breaking point that would tip it over the edge. Eventually, Matthew fished out his phone and texted Gilbert that he’d gotten the news. Matthew sent the text, then quickly followed it with another, asking if he was alright. 

Ludwig and Gilbert Beilschmidt sat side-by-side, clinking their second mug of beer when Gilbert received Matthew’s message. Wiping foam from his mouth, Ludwig glanced at the text over his brother’s shoulder. “You should go to him.” 

* * *

Gilbert arrived at his door in a leather jacket and cuffed jeans, offering Matthew a smile. He looked like hell. Matthew winced sympathetically, reaching out to him on reflex, choosing to place his hand on Gilbert’s shoulder after the fact. “I’m sorry,” Matthew told him. “It’s not your fault. None of this is—not the presentation, not the cuts…” he trailed off. 

Gilbert tried for another smile, this one seeming to come slightly easier. “Thanks, Mattie.” 

“We’re going to be fine. We’ll figure it out.” 

Gilbert took a deep breath and nodded. “Of course we will. We’re the world’s best supervillain tag team, remember?” 

Matthew hugged him, then, tightly, unable to stop himself. Taken a bit by surprise, it took Gilbert a second, but then he returned the hug too, patting Matthew on the back. He was warm, and not quite as pointy as he looked. Gilbert smelled like his lab, and a little like a pub. The urge to bury his face in Gilbert’s shirt was reason enough to pull away. “I lost my job,” Matthew told him. 

Gilbert, still red from the hug, spat a string of curses. “ _Shit_ , Mattie, I knew I should’ve made sure to knock out the cameras—”

“—Gilbert it is _not_ your fault. It was my idea and it was _me_ using _my_ powers that gave it away.”

It took Gilbert a moment to swish it around his mouth enough to decide he could swallow it. 

“It does suck though,” Matthew sighed. “And talk about bad timing.” 

“Tell me about it,” Gilbert commiserated, finally following Matthew into his living room. 

“Rent _and_ electricity are due soon.” Matthew plopped down onto the couch, chin in his hands. 

Gilbert shifted on his feet in the middle of the room. “You know, Mattie. We’re partners in this. We could always pool our financial shit if you’re ever hurting for cash.”

_That_ made Matthew hear his stupid complaints in a new light. “Gilbert, no you—no, I can’t accept—” Gilbert wandered, half-listening to his sputtered protests as he poked around at the newspaper on the coffee table. “—Gilbert, w-we—” Matthew kept going anyway, rising from the couch, reaching and fumbling for some way to reject this. 

“Actually,” Gilbert said, picking up the newspaper. He turned with a grin that stretched with a wicked inspiration, holding up the front page featuring the mysterious villain who had orchestrated the robbery of the bank. “I’ve got a better idea for getting us a raise.”

That one stopped Matthew. He tilted his head. “What do you… mean?” he asked slowly, having a bad feeling that he may know the answer. “I know you don’t care for the Council and all but… you know what they do to people who turn against them… Plus I _already_ don’t have a job.” 

“Relax, Birdie, I don’t entirely have a death wish, I promise. BUT. Think about it. Avarice Financial getting robbed royally pissed them off. You know what would make them super happy?”

“Dropping that guy off in a bow at their doorstep?”

“Well, yes, nothing against him or anything, but that would definitely be on my to-do list if I ran across the guy—that would get me my raise for sure—but if the Council can’t find him, I don’t think our luck will be better. No, what I meant was… Do you know whose bank _hasn’t_ been robbed yet? Who _else_ I don’t care for? The Council has a bank they use. So does the Commission.” Gilbert paused dramatically. 

Matthew rubbed at an arm. “Gil, I don’t know…” Gilbert stepped back. Matthew sighed and continued: “I wanna get our money situation figured out as much as anyone so we can continue what we’re doing… but the hero bank? That’s big stuff. I’ve never robbed a… not highly-respected-and-guarded bank. 

Gilbert was watching him with an odd look in his eye. Matthew wasn’t sure he liked it. “Mattie,” he said after a moment, letting the newspaper flop back onto the table, “It’s not that anything you just said doesn’t make perfect sense—it does—but I have this feeling…” Gilbert shook his head, “Matthew, you’re not telling me something. I know this is all fantastically shitty for you, but I’m missing something from you. You’re going to have to talk to me.” 

Matthew was taken aback, mostly because he knew Gilbert was onto something. And Gilbert waited for an answer that Matthew didn’t have. He sighed again, frustrated. The sky outside grumbled dangerously. “Yeah, I think I’m _missing_ something too, Gilbert,” he snapped, then immediately winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I’ve been super stressed lately…” 

Gilbert moved toward him, “Stressed about what? Your job? You hated that job. Mattie, maybe this is the push you NEEDED! Get you out of that shit routine! Its only merit was that it was familiar and it paid the bills. But now! You can do whatever the fuck you want now!” Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, feeling an oncoming headache. “Fuck, Matthew, if we pull this off—not saying it’s the end-all-be-all idea—they’ll probably pay us enough you won’t NEED another shitty job. And we can pool our cash as long as we work together. Birdie, have you ever seriously considered becoming a full-time villain?’

Matthew laughed a little, darkly, “Gil...” 

“This could be your chance to take whatever next big, scary step toward living the life you want! Tell me about that, Matthew. What’s the life you want to live like?” 

He shook his head, flustered, “I don’t know.” 

“What do you _mean,_ Birdie?” Gilbert pushed forward—having a certain excitement with this. Matthew pointedly kept his eyes on his shoes, clenching his teeth. “Do you _like_ what we do enough to do it as a career?”

“You know I like what we do, Gilbert.”

“But is it _for_ you? I’ve been responsible for a lot of the plans lately; I just figured the planning aspect wasn’t really your thing, but is this where your _heart_ is? I’ve been looking for where your heart is in this for a while now, Mattie. Just tell me where it is; I’ll let you lead anywhere you want—“

Matthew shook his head, forcing a painful smile. His heart thudded in his chest. 

“C’mon, Mattie. Your heart. Where’s your heart?” Gilbert stepped closer to playfully poke him in the chest. “Nothing can stop you when you know what you're all about. I mean look at your douchebag of a brother.” Matthew shriveled inside. “He knows what he wants; he goes for it. And you have to know something about what you want! Let me help you fucking _go_ for it!” 

The words hurt more than a blow. Matthew wanted to turn invisible, his teeth and fists clenched against it. 

Gilbert only pushed again, echoing every single voice in his life: “ _What do you WANT, Matthew_?” 

Something shattered. 

“ _Damn it_ , Gil!” Matthew matched his volume, shaking, “I want a job I enjoy! I want to wake up in the morning and not feel exhausted!” He gave a wide gesture to his living space, two rooms to contain the entirety of his life. “I want a nice apartment. I don’t want to work hellish hours at a horrible day job to keep the water running. I want to be able to buy the fair trade coffee grounds and organic maple syrup from the Farmers’ Market and not the off-brand junk I got an employee discount for! I want to have a life that’s mine that doesn’t pale in comparison to everything my fucking _brother_ has! I want a life that’s incomparable to his! I want to have half the passion about anything that you have! _Damn_ it, I want to be the one who makes the front page of the newspaper for once in my life!”

Gilbert surged forward and grabbed Matthew’s face between his hands, “Yes! YES, Matthew! There it is! Hold _tight_ to it, Matthew! THAT is everything here! You want that, Birdie? Let’s go fucking GET IT!” 

Matthew blinked rapidly, breathing heavy and heart racing. 

For a second, he’d thought Gilbert was going to kiss him. 

Then, it fully occurred to him what Gilbert _had_ done. Matthew had never confronted a word of that. Not directly. Let alone say it out loud. Matthew’s heart warmed, but then so did his eyes. 

“Are you… Shit, Mattie, are you crying? Shit, fuck, I’m sorry—”

Matthew waved it away, laughing and sniffling like an idiot. “I’m fine,” he choked out around the lump in his throat. 

“Do you… Do you need a hug?” 

Matthew tilted his head back and laughed, bright as the Sun, as outside it finally began to downpour. “Sure.” 

Gilbert tugged him close, embracing him tightly. Matthew only shook with even more laughter to see him standing on tiptoe to get his arms over Matthew’s shoulders. Matthew let his eyes fall closed to Gilbert resting his chin on the top of his head. The rain outside was loud, and messy, but it was catharsis. It was needed. 

“We’re getting in a lot of hugs today,” Gilbert observed, laughing too. He squeezed tighter. “We should do more hugs.” 

Matthew hummed his agreement. “Evil people need hugs too.” 

“Fuck yeah we do, Birdie.” 

_We._

It didn’t sound half bad.

“Gil?” Matthew said into his chest, “Will you help me incinerate my job applications?”

Gilbert held him out at arms length, grasping his shoulders tight. “ _Matthew_ ,” he told him, eyes shining, “ _It would make me so happy to do that_.” 

* * *

Alfred sat alone in the large room the Commission met in, still in his seat marked with his shining name plate, head on his fist. It was well after hours—Alfred had already said goodnight to the janitors—and the light of Alfred’s laptop was the only thing illuminating the room. 

He clicked through yet another article about the bank robbery. 

The other Commissioners had—quietly, very quietly—decided to do… nothing about it. _Well_ , officially it was ‘keep hero involvement to a minimum’ but that just meant ‘hey, lay low and do nothing.’ Nothing! But it didn’t end there either. The Commission published a condemnation of the unlawfulness of the robbery—they were real quick to do that—but because it _was_ the supervillain bank and because there _were_ heroes who helped, the Commission was going to keep out of it. 

Like, what kind of category did you put that into? It was so easy for the others to say what happened was illegal and that they’d have all culprits arrested accordingly but they wouldn’t say—maybe _couldn’t_ say—that what happened was wrong. 

It didn’t set right with him. None of it did. 

The Commission should be the ones with answers, but Alfred didn’t feel like he—or any of the other Commissioners—had anything that wasn’t some bullshit to brush off the press. 

Frustrated, Alfred clicked into some other article, finding nothing new. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he couldn’t stop. There had to be answers out there and he had to have them. He was on the Great Commission. 

He was the best hero in the whole damn city. 

And he knew the guy who just robbed the bank. A guy that his fellow heroes said should be arrested. A guy that Alfred _knew_ should be arrested. 

But why? Arrested why? Because what Kiku had done was wrong? Was it really wrong? There had been heroes involved in the robbery, of their own free will, for a reason. Actually, some of the articles Alfred found whispered of heroic deeds with money that would’ve otherwise been used for evil— _real_ evil. Tales of JUSTICE being served because of a BANK ROBBERY—some real Robin Hood sort stuff: big anonymous donations to the local zoo, a local hero-owned food pantry suddenly coming into a _huge_ lump of cash. 

Kiku himself of course wasn’t any of those heroes. Kiku called himself a villain up in front of all those cameras and all those people. But what Kiku did? Standing up to the Council like that? Taking that dirty money out of despicable, bloody, filthy hands? It wasn’t evil. Some people—some HEROES—might call what Kiku did… heroic. 

Alfred used to dream of doing stuff like what Kiku actually had the guts to do, like what the heroes at Kiku’s side actually had the guts to do. And here Alfred was on the committee saying they should all be carted off to jail. 

If Kiku was only ‘bad’ to the baddest of people imaginable, did that still make him bad? If you help a whole boatload of folks because you’re ‘bad’ to horrible people… well, in Alfred’s book at least, he couldn’t call that bad at all. 

Yet, Kiku openly claimed that he _was_ bad with the title of ‘supervillain.’ He broadcasted to every news station that he was _the_ _bad guy_ in all this. 

Alfred slapped his laptop shut, taking off his glasses to rub at aching eyes. 

* * *

Gilbert stood close enough that Matthew could feel the heat radiating from him as he carefully instructed Matthew how to properly use the incineration ray, freed from its locked box for the occasion. Matthew still felt a little dizzy with all that had happened, like his mind was maybe two feet to the left of the rest of him. 

The rain was a tapping above them. Gilbert’s lab and its ceiling of pipes and air ducts smelled something like the opposite of the rain. Half of Matthew’s mind was on his and Gilbert’s grinning, cackling dash through the downpour, was on one of Gilbert’s arms around his waist as they cut through the traffic on Matthew’s scooter while the other held his leather jacket over them, was on Gilbert holding to him with his thighs. Half of his mind idled on the thought of going back outside, letting the rain fall on his face, smear his glasses, soak the rest of his clothes with Gilbert next to him.

The other half of his mind, though, was holding an incineration ray in front of a stack of job applications in a space that felt like the opposite of the rain. Opposites were still connected, though, Matthew thought—'right' and 'wrong' answered the same question, didn't they? 

Matthew had a lot of big questions floating around his mind, none of which were easily answered, none of which may _have_ a clear-cut answer. So Matthew focused on the littler questions he did have answers to as he planted his damp sneakers firmly against the smooth concrete floor. 

Were any of these jobs in this stack of papers right for him? Of course not. 

Did he _really_ want to turn them into ash at this very moment? Yeah. He really did. 

The incineration ray was heavy, giving him extra appreciation for how strong Gilbert’s arms must be to hold it for a while, but Matthew only needed to lift it for a second. 

The light and heat and _roar_ of it took Matthew’s breath away, stumble-stepping back an inch on instinct, Gilbert’s arms there in an instant to steady him. Matthew leaned into the warm chest behind him as the papers went up in flames, grinning and illuminated by fire, gentle and calloused hands on his forearms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey sorry for dropping off the face of the Earth for like 3 months; I got blindsided by a huge wave of writer's block. Here's this though! Have you heard that Hetalia is coming back? :)  
> (Also I got really into My Hero Academia over these months because of course I did, so I can now address that it is ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL that both this work & that have Hero Commissions lol.)


End file.
